


incoherent boundaries

by jongdaesang (d10smessi)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, M/M, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d10smessi/pseuds/jongdaesang
Summary: Kyungsoo is everything Jongin cannot find within the stanzas of his written poems.





	1. my whole life has been pledged to this meeting with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set in a vague uni in seoul, spring sem from march to june. jongin teaches an elective class about poetry written in english to interested students, so assume that he (and his students who enlisted) are fluent. kyungsoo teaches an intro to lit with a focus on the nuances of translated texts. anyway, the language is NOT explicitly discussed in the story but this is just in case anyone (like me) questions why they’re in korea using english works.
> 
> this fic contains, among other things, a LOT of literary references, misunderstandings, adults being stupid, pretentious faux intellectual conversations, dick jokes, **sexual content, kaibaek, sesoo**
> 
> title is from eugene onegin by our boy alex p.
> 
> **all the original poetry is written by yours truly.**

_{ i long for your eyes, your skin, your voice_

_one by one, kiss by kiss_

_i long for the sound of your moans, the ghosts of the echoes,_

_silently and then, like thunder }_

 

 

It starts with a craving, at first. Curiosity is built on the temptation of owning something so forbidden. 

 

On the first week of class, Jongin stands on the podium in front of an audience of forty-five, maybe fifty. It’s surely a full load, probably with a few extras too, and that’s a surprise. This is an 8AM Poetry 101 course designed to be taken as an elective. It isn’t called Poetry 101, officially, but he has greeted the room with a hearty good morning, calling the class that and skipping all unnecessary pretext to head straight to the discussion of the syllabus. 

 

There is not much to introduce, really, but he takes his time to go over everything in detail. In truth, Jongin is there to evaluate how much bullshit students can cram within the requirements of iambic pentameters and how alive they are when he says they can write in free verse. It’s all of the informality within the field of arts disguised in the formality of a classroom setting. Jongin hands out a photocopied list of their readings to a girl with a completely shaven head sitting on the front row and she dutifully passes it around. Aside from writing, they are to analyze words and structures—disentangling the threads and thought processes of dead poets who have put _red_ on paper to mean blood or love or, ironically enough, just the color.

 

“The best way to introduce this class,” he sits slightly on the corner of the large table and starts tapping the remote held on his right hand against his left palm in a staccato, “is to begin with reading.”

 

He clicks the remote and the slide on the projector overhead shifts. Jongin slides down the wood and the click of his dress shoes are audible in the silence of the room. He pulls the sleeves of his pinstriped blazer subconsciously and he licks his lips before continuing, “The semester is divided into three—Elizabethan and metaphysical poetry, romantic poetry, modern to—”

 

Jongin halts mid-sentence when the door to the classroom slams open and a young man, perhaps a junioror a senior around 21 to 23 years old, walks inside. The student is dressed comfortably in loose khakis and a gingham shirt, white socks peeking out from the cuffs of his trousers.

 

“Good morning,” Jongin says with a smile. “You’re late.”

 

The man visibly falters in his steps, one foot in front of the other and back slightly hunched. It is endearing how he pushes his round glasses up the high bridge of his nose with three fingers shoved on the right frame. With a thin laptop nestled securely on the crook of his left elbow, the man raises his free hand, wiggling his fingers and waving. Jongin bites back a smile but he cannot help but burst into laughter when the student stutters, “Uh—hi. Good morning.”

 

Shaking his head, Jongin gestures for the younger man to sit anywhere, says, “I don’t have the class list yet. What’s your name?”

 

“Kyungsoo,” he replies. The student settles on the aisle seat two rows behind the very front. Jongin looks at him directly in the face and he marvels at the soft features and the wide eyes. The words nestle over plush lips, slowly. The student explains, “I’ll be sitting in in your class if you don’t mind.”

 

“Go ahead,” Jongin shrugs. Kyungsoo gets comfortable on his perch, opening his laptop like most of the students around him.

 

“As I was saying before the freeloader came in late and interrupted me—” He winks at Kyungsoo and there is a few scattered laughter from the class. Kyungsoo smiles but he ducks his head when several students turn their eyes to him. Coughing to take the attention from the embarrassed man, Jongin paces in front and spinning the remote in between his thumb and index finger, continuing, “—the semester is divided into three—Elizabethan and metaphysical poetry, romantic poetry, and modern to post-modern poetry.”

 

Jongin walks towards the first row and he leans on the table near the aisle. He’s directly in front of Kyungsoo and he looks down at the student briefly before proceeding with the the class requirements. Getting comfortable, he clicks and another slide comes on the large projector. 

 

“As this is also a writing class—” Jongin makes his voice firm. No use allowing the students to think he’s incompetent as an instructor just because he likes to smile. “—I would require everyone to submit a piece every Friday of the week, printed or neatly written on an A4 sized paper, following the standards of the poetic movement we are discussing in class. I would either assign a theme or would let everyone explore whatever topic they want to.”

 

Murmurs rise within the classroom and Jongin allows the students to whisper and complain amongst themselves. In the back row, a group of three men titters, groans evident from the way their foreheads all crease simultaneously. It’s amusing on its own.

 

Jongin raises his voice just slightly and the students calm down and lower their noises. He proceeds on discussing the course outline, the requirements, the readings, and his classroom policies. He fiddles with the remote in his hold all throughout and he lowers the sleeves of his jacket thrice, conscious of the art hiding underneath. He is not ashamed, not really, but it’s the first day of the semester and he would very much like to know his students first before they are privy to the short stories and the nonsensical ramblings painted on his skin.

 

He goes on and on, occasionally entertaining questions from his audience about his teaching methods and his background. He relishes in the rapt attention of the class as he continues to drawl about the basics of the three movements—low brow past time of rhythmic philosophical labyrinths turned into a mainstream elite hobby for the Elizabethan and the metaphysical, the idyllic quality of the Romantics pouring over the the morbidity of perfection, and the intense focus to the non-existence of structure for the post-modernists. 

 

Before long, Jongin finds himself drawing the class to a close. His watch is heavy on his wrist and, without checking for the time, familiarity and episodic memory whisper in his ear that the fifty-minute period is almost over. Sighing, he clicks a red button on the remote cradled between long fingers. He walks back until he’s behind the heavy wood of the teacher’s table again, establishing the authority and creating the boundary of _socius_.

 

He runs his eyes through the class one last time, etching the faces inside the twists of his mind, and his eyes briefly flickers to some of the stand-outs—the girl with the shaven head, the quiet man in the back with a snakebite piercing, and Kyungsoo. 

 

Jongin gives the class a small smile and, as the remnants of the smoke after his breakfast coffee and non-stop talking finally lend his voice a sleep-laden quality, he rasps out deeply, “Poetry is an art form that many of us take for granted. Sometimes, we think that placing a break between the words to create lines can build a poem. Sometimes, we think that rhymes are the only way to construct one. But the question here that I hope we all can have an inkling of an answer to towards the end of the semester is this—what makes a poem, a poem?”

 

Silence washes over the room for a second before the trilling of the bell sounds through the small speakers installed overhead on the two corners at the back of the room. Jongin pushes his laptop close and replaces it inside the sleeve. He gathers his leather Moleskin, slipping his Parker pen in between the elastic holding the journal shut. Jongin notices Kyungsoo still sitting in place, and he remembers something.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he calls out, gesturing to the student with a friendly grin. The man snaps his eyes to him and they visibly enlarge before the other stands up, making his way to where Jongin is, laptop held in front of him.

 

“Yeah?” He asks softly. His shoulders are drooped low in bad posture or laziness. The grip of his fingers on his laptop loosens and tightens, Jongin notices, in, perhaps, nervousness. Cowering his head low, soft-looking bangs falling short on his forehead, Kyungsoo says, “I’m sorry for disrupting the class earlier.”

 

“Just don’t do it again. I don’t mind late-comers but if you do come in late, just choose a seat in the back so you won’t disturb anyone with your entrance.” Jongin waves his hand in a noncommittal gesture. Kyungsoo’s body line visibly relaxes and that is when he has realized that the other is tense. He adds an inquiry, “Do you plan to sit in for all of my lectures?”

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes make contact with his and the twinkle in them and the quirk on his lips have Jongin feeling like the shorter man is hiding a secret, or an amusement, with a little bit of surprise. The student nods, says, “If you don’t mind.”

 

Jongin grunts, “I don’t. But you have to participate in discussions and submit requirements. They won’t be graded, of course, but I want you to be a part of the class like any other student.”

 

Kyungsoo chuckles at that, deep and smooth. The student nods and, sounding mischievous, replies, “Of course, Mr. Kim.”

 

“Jongin,” he corrects. His voice is still hoarse. “I told the class to call me Jongin before you came in late.”

 

Kyungsoo inclines his head in acknowledgement, mouthing, “Jongin,” before saying, “Okay, Jongin.”

 

He watches as the student skips away out of the room and he narrows his eyes when Kyungsoo greets a tall man leaning on the door before the two of them walk away.

 

Jongin collects his things and he tries to shake off the pink he is feeling on the tips of his ears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He finishes his morning classes at exactly twelve noon. He walks down to a café just outside campus, a little cranky after one student in his last class haughtily gets his attention with a question about the usefulness of literature within a capitalist society. Jongin would have entertained the query—the liberalism of arts within various market structures is something that has always interested him—but the young management major, as the student has explicitly stated, snaps the fragile thread of his patience with a large smirk.

 

Fortunately, when he pushes the door to the café and the metallic chimes tinkle, he immediately spots his companion in one of the tables. Sitting on a glass table with two mismatched chairs and a glass bottle filled with pinwheels, Jongin feels his irritation evaporating on the coffee-stained atmosphere. Briskly making his way to the man, he reaches one hand to the other’s face, covering the top half of his face with his palm. 

 

The man jumps and flinches with the contact but Jongin ignores the action, beaming wide at the sound of a yelp and thin fingers grasping his wrist to detach the hand blinding him.

 

“Jongin!” Baekhyun turns to him in surprise and mild annoyance. “You surprised me!”

 

“Did I?” Jongin teases, sliding on the seat across the other man. With his elbow on the glass, he rests his forearm flat, palm-side up.

 

“You did!” The older man chuckles. The space is too cramped for the length of Jongin’s legs and he wiggles in his seat, arranging his limbs underneath the table. He feels another set of legs slipping against his and Jongin shoots the other man an amused look from where he is sitting down.

 

“Footsie?” He jokes, kicking slightly at the other man’s ankle. Or what he hopes to be one. “We’re not teenagers anymore, Baek.”

 

“I wouldn’t know.” The man laughs softly, lips in a wide rectangle. “I have never met you as an eighteen year old high school student.”

 

Jongin’s mind clouds with the shadows of the years he has desperately tried to recover from. He hides it with a joke. “You wouldn’t want to meet me as a teenager. I was angsty.”

 

Baekhyun places his hand on Jongin’s, tracing the lines on the younger man’s palm. The smile on his face looks pained and it doesn’t reach his droopy eyes. He murmurs, trying to sound nonchalant but failing, “I’m sure you would make a good literature hero.”

 

Jongin feels vaguely guilty so he catches Baekhyun’s wandering hand in between his. Slotting the man’s pretty fingers in between the spaces, Jongin links both of them above the cold surface of the table. The pinwheels rotate minutely.

 

The slight furrow on Baekhyun’s eyebrows relaxes and he says, though without malice, “I won’t pressure you into telling me what you’re not ready to tell.”

 

Jongin squeezes the man’s smaller hand, grateful. “Thank you, Baek. One day, okay?”

 

Baekhyun smiles at that, relief apparent on the hard planes of his face. The left corner of his lips twitch and Jongin longs to kiss him—just like always, when that thin mouth quirks just slightly on one side, crooked but adorable. 

 

A moment of quiet flits between them and the din of the café rises, bringing about a cacophony of laughter and complaints about the cold weather blending in with the soft beats of contemporary hip-hop from a popular boy group. The door to the establishment chimes again.

 

“How was class?” Baekhyun interrupts the comfortable music of noises. Jongin hums in acknowledgement but before he answers, a waiter appears beside their table. Baekhyun withdraws his hand, glancing at the server with wary eyes. The man’s smile does not falter.

 

“Here’s your order. One grilled four cheese sandwich and tomato soup—” he pauses and Baekhyun gives the man a nod towards himself. The waiter sets the large plate, careful of the cup of steaming soup and the oozing cheese, and the other plate goes in front of Jongin. “—and one chicken pesto panini with salted sweet potato chips. Is that all?”

 

“Yup. Thanks!” Baekhyun pops the ‘p’ and the waiter saunters away after telling them to enjoy the food. Turning to Jongin, he says, “I hope you don’t mind me ordering for you. I remember you mentioning in one of our dates before that you like paninis and the waiter says this one’s a new specialty.”

 

He eyes the food on his plate, taking in the large dish brimming with what he sees to be grilled chicken, fresh tomatoes, a heaping of pesto, and melted cheese. It looks appetizing but Jongin is in the mood for pasta today. Regardless, he nods at the man across from him, says, “Yes. This one seems delicious.”

 

Jongin tells himself that the answering smile on Baekhyun’s face and his happy sigh are both enough. He adds, replying to the question before the waiter has brought their order, “And class was fine. The first two, at least.”

 

Baekhyun takes a careful sip of his tomato soup, blowing air on the spoon before shoving it inside his mouth. “What happened to the last one?”

 

“Some student who thinks he’s such a hotshot,” Jongin grumbles. “Management major, as he promptly said even if no one asked, who has no appreciation for literature.”

 

The other man laughs, “It’s the first day of class, Jongin. Maybe he’s just trying to get your attention?”

 

“Maybe—” He takes a large bite of his sandwich, savoring the burst of flavors in his tongue. The basil and the garlic are prominent. “—but he’s definitely got my eyes on him now. And not in a good way.”

 

“See,” Baekhyun’s eyes form into slits. “Bad attention for the professor is still attention. Though I’m not much of a literature person myself. Sorry.”

 

Jongin shakes his head, grinning at the older man, “We can’t all be perfect, Mr. Financial Adviser.”

 

Baekhyun’s laughter rings in Jongin’s ears—familiar.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first week of class is nothing but dilly dallying. Jongin talks about the Elizabethan age of poetry in England and its impact towards the shift of society. The class has been cooperative—no one has fallen asleep to the ringing of Jongin’s voice—and while he is not the type to throw a whiteboard marker to a student’s forehead, he is also not above giving a surprise quiz when prompted with annoyance. 

 

On the second week, Jongin brims with barely concealed excitement under the blanket of professionalism and manners. The bell rings at exactly 8AM and he scans the room to check the number of students who showed up. Pleasantly, there’s only two people missing. The freeloader,Kyungsoo, as Jongin has taken to calling him, is sitting on his usual seat on the second row. The student sees him looking and he gives a small grin and a nod, as if giving an explicit permission. Jongin gulps and, subconsciously, he widens his stance before he turns the projector to life, flashing the powerpoint.

 

“We can’t talk about Elizabethan poetry without talking about William Shakespeare,” he begins. Clicking the remote to change the slide, he adds, “Imagine being so prominent that an entire poetic movement is named after you.”

 

Jongin pauses with a small chuckle. None of the students react or crack a smile but he notes how Kyungsoo’s features shift to that of amusement. Addressing the audience at large with a tilt of his head, he asks, “Anyone want to share what they know about him?”

 

A girl in a pixie cut raises her hand after a moment of silence. After Jongin has nodded at her, she says, “He popularized sonnets but he’s more known for his plays.” There’s a slight hesitation in the end of her statement as if weighing what she is about to say next. Jongin sees her visibly shrug, adding, “Also, dirty jokes. A lot of dirty jokes.”

 

Jongin chuckles a little because _is that just not who Shakespeare is_?

 

“Yes. Considering the land mine that is his literary contribution, every time someone quotes a Shakespeare, it’s more likely that they’re quoting something juvenile rather than something meaningful. The thing that most people are not aware of is that Shakespearean plays are shown in front of a bunch of Londoners in a mosh pit who are waiting to throw rotten vegetables to the actors.” Jongin grins, all teeth, and adds, “‘ _Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them_.’ is a dick joke. The greatness is a penis.”

 

Someone snorts loudly and Jongin turns his head to where Kyungsoo has both of his hands stuffed in his mouth. Eyes in crescents and looking like he’s on the brink of giggling, Kyungsoo waves at him, taking a deep breath.

 

“Malvolio. Twelfth Night. From a prank letter filled with the filthiest of innuendo,” he says. With an impish twinkling in his eyes, Kyungsoo quotes, “‘ _I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes._ ’ is one of my favorites.”

 

Jongin laughs, like he’s a teenager again, sharing a lukewarm can of beer with a friend and talking about chasing school girl skirts and school boy trousers. He retorts, “Benedick to Beatrice. Much Ado About Nothing: Act 5, Scene 2.”

 

The smile on Kyungsoo’s face is so big it bunches his cheeks. Jongin feels heated all over, mind thrilling and heart beating fast, at the way Kyungsoo gazes at him—from top to bottom—with emphasis. Something crawls under his skin, insistent. He paces so he’s near the sitting student, looking down, and he is sure his cheeks are flushed slightly. 

 

Kyungsoo stares up at him through long lashes, thick and dark, and his voice is slightly high with excitement. “Clearly,” he breathes out, “it is also one of your favorites.”

 

“How can it not be? When Shakespeare titled his play with—and excuse me for the vulgarity—” Jongin turns his head upwards to direct his words to the class. “—Much Ado About Vagina.”

 

Several of his students snap their heads from where they are typing on their laptops, the telltale click-clacks stopping abruptly. Three students seated together have their mouths slack open in a comical sight. Jongin finds enjoyment in some of their confused faces, remarking, “Shakespeare is as obscene as you can get. _Nothing_ is Elizabethan-speak for the private female parts and, well, keep in mind that every time someone says that title, they might as well have said cunt,” Jongin shakes his shoulders, not much care on the word slipping out of his mouth. It’s a word. “Amazing how one man can cram that much sexual innuendo in a literary piece that is not pornographic, yeah?”

 

Jongin turns his back and he clicks the powerpoint again. This time, he keeps his eyes on Kyungsoo, maintaining contact, before his stare roams around again. 

 

“That is not to say,” he continues. All traces of joking gone and replaced by verbose seriousness. “That Shakespeare’s works are not worth taking the time to analyze. Some academics dedicate their entire lives on his work and life alone. However, we’d try to limit our discussion to his sonnets only. Maybe some of his more famous monologues and soliloquy.”

 

He clicks on the remote again and there’s a big SONNET 20 displayed on the screen. He inquires, “Who here can tell me how many sonnets Shakespeare has published?”

 

Jongin waits for someone to raise their hand. He taps the butt of the remote on his wrist in four counts before Kyungsoo, looking put upon, offers, “154.”

 

“Correct.” Jongin places the remote down, sending an impressed look to the student. He couldn’t have searched that—his laptop is closed in front of him. “Shakespeare has written 154 sonnets and number 20 here, is one of the most famous ones.”

 

Someone near the back row, the guy with the snakebite, calls out, “Is it because it’s the gay one?”

 

Jongin laughs and so does the rest of the class. “It is _analyzed_ to be the gay one. Even the resident alleged bisexual, Oscar Wilde, believes it to be.” He lifts his left shoulder in an indifferent gesture. “Maybe he’s projecting. I mean, I would have.”

 

There are audible gasps heard all over the room. Jongin feels interested eyes follow him. It is neither a novelty nor a secret.

 

“Look at the structure of the quatrains and the couplet. Note the first line—” Jongin clears his throat. “— _A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted_ has a final extrametrical syllable, a feminine ending. The homoerotic aspect of the succeeding lines can be read through the sexual interpretations of Shakespeare’s imagery of a masculine model with a distinctive feminine beauty.”

 

Several students’ hands shoot up and Jongin calls on them one by one. Two of them exchange sharp words and Jongin has to break it with a statement to lead the debate towards another direction. Someone has just finished spouting the nuances of gender and its relationship to Shakespeare romantic history when Kyungsoo interjects.

 

“It’s fluid.” One of Jongin’s eyebrows rise to his hairline and he leans his head to the right, a mute signal for Kyungsoo to go on. Taking it as his cue, the student continues, “It’s—well, I’m not sure if the term is politically correct so I’m sorry—uh, gender-bending? The tone has set a certain persona that satisfies the ambiguity of gender. Or, as it is, the unimportance of it to what the sonnet is trying to convey—which is love, in my opinion.”

 

A little curious, Jongin prods, “Do you think Shakespeare is dedicating his sonnets to his love interests? To a particular person?”

 

There it is again—the hint of smile on Kyungsoo’s lips like he knows a secret he is not telling anyone, like a male Da Vinci masterpiece shot to stardom through confusion and prying mouths. Stalwart but with a soft voice, Kyungsoo answers, “No. I don’t think Shakespeare has written them out of love.”

 

Terribly interested, Jongin spurs on, “And what do you think he has written his sonnets for?”

 

“Satisfaction of ego,” Kyungsoo’s plush lips twist uneven. “Shakespeare likes to write, likes to get the words out. The only person he had dedicated his 154 carefully crafted sonnets to was himself.”

 

Jongin narrows his eyes at Kyungsoo, trying to look through the cracks of his perpetual amusement. With a small smile, he says, “You’re not much of a romantic, are you?”

 

Kyungsoo’s chuckle rings true and clear when he replies, “I really am not.”

 

“Well, aside from—”

 

Jongin is startled when the high sound of the bell from the speakers permeates the room. Checking his watch, he is a little light-headed to find out the hands clearly reading 8:50. He coughs, “That’s it for today. See you on Wednesday and don’t forget to submit your poetry this Friday—sonnet, no theme.”

 

The usual noise of rushing students eager to escape a lecture calms Jongin. Thrown off, he has not realized that the fifty minutes allotted for his discussion has flown to nowhere. Some students bid him goodbye and he waves them off kindly while taking his time to fix his things. 

 

He is shuffling several papers when he notices a pair of leather shoes and clean white socks beside the wooden table. Looking up, he tries to hide a smile when Kyungsoo grins at him, a little apologetic.

 

“It’s not a bother that I talk a lot during class, is it? I mean, I’m not your student.” He shuffles the toes of his shoes against each other, knees turned inwards. Jongin rakes his eyes up to stare at Kyungsoo’s face and he tries to give the man his most reassuring smile.

 

“Not really,” Jongin replies. He resists the urge to pat Kyungsoo on the shoulder, reservation towards propriety quashing the appeal of physical contact. “You’re insightful—I like that. You seem very knowledgeable about literature.”

 

“You can’t say that. It’s only our fourth meeting,” Kyungsoo admonishes with a laugh. “Maybe I just like to search analyses on Google.” He hitches his backpack higher, clutching the straps with both hands. 

 

It’s cute, Jongin thinks. 

 

“I’m being honest though,” he attempts to convince the man. He closes his Moleskin and he clicks the top of his pen, the tip withdrawing, before stuffing it in between the red elastic of his notebook. His fingers shake underneath Kyungsoo’s scrutiny. Jongin grips the leather of his journal like a lifeline.

 

“You can quote Shakespeare like a pro,” Jongin says and before he even finishes Kyungsoo has already gotten out, “Maybe I just like memorizing the dirty jokes.”

 

Jongin schools his face into a smirk, adds unhelpfully, the words forming out without his consent and before his brain catches up to the context, “ _Thou hast undone our mother._ ”

 

“ _Villain_ ,” Kyungsoo answers, exaggerated, “ _I have done thy mother_.”

 

There is silence before the shorter male throws his head back as he laughs out lout, exposing the unblemished column of his neck. Jongin’s eyes flit to the pale skin, gulping, sweat beading on his forehead while inside a sparsely heated room in the tails of winter.

 

Kyungsoo’s laughter sounds like the warmth of summer and the floors of the dance studios from Jongin’s memories.

 

 

_{ you are the drifting smoke in the endlessness_

_escaping and out of reach._

_you are the gnawing impulse, the real devil,_

_and i am nothing but the willing prey. }_

 

 

Friday comes in a breath of fresh air to balm the sting on Jongin’s back and it finds him carrying a stack of A4 sheets home. He takes the subway two blocks away from the university, stopping on the third station and walking the next fifteen minutes in a sedate pace. Seoul flies by under the mottled purple skies and the flashing neon lights of the slowly waking city night look the same as the red and the green and the orange that Jongin sees every time he shuts his eyes. 

 

The lobby of his mid-rise building is quiet during this time. The property rarely appeals to families so there are no running children or crying babies. He takes the elevator to the second to the last floor, the fourteenth, and he transfers all the loose leaf papers on his right hold to the left. He inserts the key on the main knob, before keying the heavy duty lock. Pushing, Jongin kicks the door shut and calls out, “I’m home,” to no one in particular as he toes his leather shoes off in a disarray. He’s not impressing anyone with his cleanliness and organization, that is for sure.

 

He breathes in the scent of being home and he shucks off his coat quickly, hanging it on one of the hooks near the door. Padding softly to his living room, he drops his stuff on the navy armchair beside the television set, cursing when he bumps on the almost empty office table just beside it.

 

Halfway leaping to the couch across the entertainment system, he plops gracelessly on the soft cushion, popping the buttons of his dress shirt with one hand until they are all open. The shirt remains tucked in but Jongin loosens the buckle of his belt and undoes the button of his black trousers. Leaning back, he surveys the neat industrial style kitchen just behind the couch. Jongin prefers his living space in an open concept, less intrusive and appearing to be more spacious than it really is. The metal island glimmers from the pouring lights outside and he sighs, remembering that he has to turn on the lights at some point.

 

His phone vibrates and he plucks it from the confines of his pant pocket. The screen suddenly throws the dim room into sharp brightness. There’s a message from Baekhyun asking if he can come over. Jongin grins despite himself—coming over usually means staying the night and staying the night usually means not sleeping at all, if they can both handle it, with their naked skin against each other. He fires a quick _okay_ back and, immediately, he gets three sparkling heart emojis and an _eat dinner i’ll be late!_ from the other man.

 

Feeling marginally better though not any less exhausted from the burdens of the weekdays, he stands up with a small groan, only to let out an expletive when he feels the muscle on his leg ache. “Fuck,” he bends down, massaging the toned flesh roughly. The cold always brings about the reminder of the past and the what-ifs. 

 

Regardless, Jongin limps a little towards the kitchen, turning the bulbs on inside his apartment. He washes his hand on the sink, hunching down as if it can ease the pain on his lower limb. He pulls out a pack of ramyun from the metal cupboard under the sink and a small pot from a different drawer. He grabs an egg inside the refrigerator and he weighs the leeks on his hands before throwing it back inside the crisper—a knife and a chopping board are two more things to wash. 

 

Filling the pot with eyeballed water, he turns around towards the island where the four-burner stove is. Dropping the egg on the empty counter top, Jongin waits for the water to boil before ripping the noodle packet and sprinkling only three-quarters of the seasoning. Once it’s done, he cracks the egg open and, grabbing a pair of chopsticks, vigorously stirs his meal before turning the fire off.

 

Like a sad man, he has no proper dining table—something Baekhyun has expressed a great disdain for. Instead, there’s a table pushed in front of the island, almost the same length, with two light-stained wooden chairs beside each other. Jongin likes it like this. It is minimalist—simple and straightforward. Jongin debates on putting the noodles inside a bowl but, in the end, the bachelor in him wins. Thankfully, his table is lacquered and heat-proof. 

 

Setting the meal in front of one of the chairs, Jongin takes the trouble of walking the three large steps to the fridge to grab himself the last serving of kimchi in a microwavable container he will have no remorse of throwing to the trash after. 

 

He slurps the soggy noodles fast, unmindful of the spiciness hitting his tongue. The egg tastes rubbery and he doesn’t quite manage to finish the soup. Admitting defeat, he throws what is left of his dinner in the sink and he lets the water run to fill the pot completely for it to soak. He will deal with it when he’s feeling less tired.

 

Slumping down on the navy couch once more, Jongin finally lets the fatigue consume the hollowness in his heavy bones. He grabs the remote and the TV turns on in a burst of blue. A middle-aged woman is sobbing as she punches another man’s chest weakly. It is overdramatic—exactly how Jongin likes it—and the plot is completely lost on him as he mindlessly watches the climax without ever knowing the very beginning. 

 

On the second drama after the first—there is a car chase in the middle of the expressway—the doorbell buzzes twice. Jongin calls, “Coming,” before he hobbles to open the door for his visitor.

 

“Hi,” Baekhyun grins impishly. Eyeing Jongin’s barely there attire, he adds, “How nice of you to surprise me with your body.”

 

Jongin leans on the doorjamb with what he hopes is seductively inviting sneer. Baekhyun steps inside and crowds Jongin against the wall. His left foot pushes the door close and, before Jongin can even breathe, the hard planes of Baekhyun’s body are aligned against his. His hands fly over the expensive material of Baekhyun’s button down, grappling underneath the black suit jacket. He feels the apparent jut of hipbones when his hands slide lower, above the man’s dress pants.

 

“I like it when you’re dressed corporate,” he says, deep and intentionally hoarse. “You look so prim and proper.”

 

Baekhyun presses a languid kiss on the juncture of Jongin’s neck and shoulder. His teeth scrapes tan skin, murmuring, “It’s because I want you to make a mess out of me.”

 

Jongin smirks and he leans his head sideways to give the other man access to the length of his neck. His hands creep low and Baekhyun’s moans echo within the walls of his empty apartment when large hands cup his small ass. Jongin squeezes and the firm muscle barely gives. He bends down and he captures the man’s lips in a hot kiss. Baekhyun giggles with their lips still attached and hands play on Jongin’s abs, insistent and impatient. 

 

Biting the taller man’s lower lip, Baekhyun groans, “Bedroom. Now. Ple—”

 

The older man has barely finished his plea before Jongin is swooping down to kiss him hungrily again. They stumble in the bedroom like that, lust-filled moans reverberating within the dead of the night. Jongin has thick walls and Baekhyun is a screamer in bed. Falling down on the mattress, he quickly hovers over the older man, caressing his face tenderly before diving down again. Jongin’s kisses grow more heated and it barely feels like a minute before Baekhyun is pushing him away.

 

“Touch me in other places too, Jongin,” he whines. 

 

He complies, hands and lips going everywhere. Baekhyun does not like kissing much, finding it gross on a bad day and tolerable on a good day. Jongin relishes the feeling of lips against his but a relationship is not just one person dragging another. 

 

Jongin fucks Baekhyun to oblivion—only the repeated high notes of _ah, ah, ah_ and the demands for him to go harder, faster, and the wailing of _Jongin, Jongin, Jongin, Jo—_ can be made out of through the sound of grunting and moaning that break off into disjointed trebles. 

 

When they have finished, Baekhyun cards his fingers through Jongin’s hair, thanking him and mumbling in a way that is totally Baekhyun, “I’ve missed you. We haven’t met each other a lot. Sorry I’ve been busy, Jongin.”

 

Jongin pretends to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Baekhyun becomes progressively busier just as the semester turns from Jongin reading sonnets in iambic pentameter to the poems of individualism and imaginative spontaneity. Keats, Coleridge, and Wordsworth speak easy from the clench of his jaw and the twists of his tongue on the immortalized words of dead people. On a Wednesday, two classes away from the midterm exam, Jongin flashes a single photo on the projector without any name, waiting for the flash of recognition on his students’ faces.

 

He scans the room—from the row farthest back, right to left—and resignation blooms in his stomach at the non-acknowledgement of the literary figure in the lively brush strokes and the moody lighting of 19th century portraiture. Jongin is about to click to the next slide when he sees the sparkle in Kyungsoo’s eyes. His small hands are on top of the table and he rubs both of his palms together in rapid succession before he pushes his fingers to link them in between the spaces. He smiles indulgently—Kyungsoo looks like he is ready to vibrate in excitement. Thumbs rubbing the skin on the top of his hand betrays the mask of calm interest on his face.

 

Jongin has always been a good reader.

 

“Kyungsoo,” he addresses the student. The man looks up, looking borderline funny with his eyes popping and the corners of thick lips twitching, trying to curb the beginning of a smile. “Care to tell the class who the literary figure on the screen is?”

 

Kyungsoo sighs and Jongin cannot help but compare it to something akin to a swoon. The ecstasy of admiration is always too much for the air inside someone’s lungs that they feel the need to exhale. He grins. Kyungsoo looks like the type to fall in love with poets, with authors. His pink tongue slips in between his mouth to lick at his top lip. He breathes out in reverence, “Pushkin. Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin.”

 

“You’re right,” Jongin nods. He tries to keep the surprise off of his voice but the knowing smile on Kyungsoo’s face is enough of an indication that he has failed. 

 

Awkwardly, a little more careful than he would have in a class without a student who says Russian names perfectly, in the same way an old Slavic professor from grad school has enunciated them, he continues, “Pushkin is considered by many to be the greatest Russian poet and, well, the founder of modern Russian lit. I’m sure you’ve heard, if not read, one of his most famous works—Eugene Onegin? Yevgeniy Onegin? And of course, the one on your syllabus, To***.”

 

There are a few scattered nods in the room with only a handful of his students looking like they have no clue what he is talking about. Evidently, there are a few who have not perused his assigned reading. He steals a glance at Kyungsoo and there is an encouraging smile on his face, almost like he is the teacher lecturing in front. Jongin reins the tremble on his fingertips by averting his gaze from the stretch of his student’s mouth and the half-moons of his eyes.

 

“While Nabokov had argued the untranslatability of Pushkin’s most famous love poem, the one I gave to everyone is in English—done by Walter Arndt.” Jongin picks the clicker on the table, fumbling and returning the slide to the picture of Alexander Pushkin. He feels his face heat up and he apologizes before quickly shifting to the correct one. To*** flashes on the screen, in all its filtered English, forever a mystery to people like Jongin who cannot speak Russian beyond that of informal greetings and _no more vodka, please, thank you_ taught by a friend from his university days when they have gone to Chelyabinsk several summers ago.

 

Coughing, slipping his index finger by an inch underneath the material of his black turtleneck sweater, he sees one student raise their hand from all the way at the back. He squints, trying to make out the person before his mind comes up with a name that he hopes to be correct. “Doyoung?”

 

The boy grins sheepishly and Jongin supposes he has gotten the name right when no flash of hurt crosses his student’s features. Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, he nods his head in the universal gesture for _go on_. Doyoung stutters a bit but he is no less intelligible. “Uh—Miste—I mean, Jongin. Well, I did my research on Pushkin and I just wanna know. Like, there are debates if he really is a Romantic poet, you know?”

 

Jongin rolls his words carefully on the tip of his tongue, testing them in clear waters first. He has expected this question when he brings Russian literature, especially Pushkin, on the table. “For one, Pushkin fits the timeline of the Romantic Period. If we’re strictly talking about To***, then I would argue than it is part of the Romantic movement.”

 

He pauses, stepping beside the table of one of his students. Diagonally from him, Kyungsoo is looking up with interest, lower lip bitten and his eyebrows mildly meeting in the middle, thinking, looking ready to refute whatever it is before Jongin even says anything. Undeterred, he adds, staring at Doyoung, smiling small at the sight of genuine inquisitiveness on the young student’s face, “To*** has always been a question, perhaps that adds to its value. The most famous Russian love poem—and everyone is debating as to whom Pushkin has written it for.”

 

“Maybe it is for his mistress, Kern. Maybe it is not. Maybe it is for the Empress at that time, or for Tatyana from Onegin.” Jongin shrugs. The clicking of laptop keys breaks off just as he pauses and Jongin takes a deep breath before continuing, eyes looking at some of the bored faces, some interested ones, some indifferent, wanting to just pass the class. He pays them no heed. “Lord Byron has been a great influence to the romanticists of Russia. And, if we consider the major themes of English romantic poetry, then To*** certainly exhibits some of them.”

 

Leaning his hip on the wood, he continues, “Pushkin's love poem is a work of subjectivity, relying heavily on personal feelings and imagination.”

 

“It’s the melancholy,” Kyungsoo speaks up. His eyes are still on Jongin but he looks far away. “Pushkin’s love poem is the apex of his longing for the unnamed woman.”

 

“Yes,” Jongin readily agrees. “The context by which the poem has come to be is important. It's found in between the copy of Onegin that Pushkin gave to Kern, his mistress. Whoever the poem is for, Pushkin is yearning for a woman whom he has been with but cannot stay with. If it's Kern, then it’s obviously because of the fact that she is one of how many mistresses. If it is Tatyana, then Onegin is reaching for the moments he had devoted into crafting her. Only for the very same woman to slip from his grasp the moment Eugene Onegin ends.”

 

Kyungsoo nods and the furrow of his brows relaxes but does not go away completely. Crumpling his mouth in what Jongin has observed as a habit at this point, the student contends, challenges, “But Pushkin has always toed the lines of romanticism. And this poem is no different, I think.”

 

“Ah,” Jongin smiles down at the student. The world turns into a vacuum. "You think Pushkin is a realist?”

 

There it is again, the distinct movement of Kyungsoo’s mouth that distorts it funnily.

 

“Not really,” he replies. “Maybe. Pushkin has always been contrary. A Romantic and not, at the same time. It’s what makes him a lovely author, in my opinion. He subverts constants—outlooks, principles, critiques, society. It is what makes Onegin such a masterpiece. Especially in the original text.”

 

The confidence in Kyungsoo’s voice is not amiss on Jongin. He really should have expected it but the respect and the sheer amazement that wash over him as Kyungsoo confirms his fluency in one more language bowl him over with surprise and—again, with the curiosity. Jongin wants to unravel the strings that hold Do Kyungsoo together—not quite to break, only to know little by little the person underneath the literature.

 

And, _oh_. 

 

 

_{ throat rumbles like a threat, a warning;_

_lips quirked and eyes bright;_

_a mortal condensed into a question:_

_how would you like to die tonight? }_

 

 

The month of May begins with a temperature higher than what Jongin is used to during the days of almost summer. He has traded woolen jackets for button downs bought from a high street fashion store that his older sister has sworn by. More than one student from his different classes have gasped when the bright fluorescent light of the room hits the fabric, making it translucent and revealing the hints of the colored sleeve Jongin has gotten on that brief period when he was eighteen years old to twenty-two.

 

Jongin’s cooped up in his apartment on a Friday night, again, like always, when he receives a text from one of his closer friends staying in Seoul and teaching in the university. Kim Jongdae is quite a character with words sharper than knives and full of persuasion. Jongin is acquainted to Jongdae’s say-it-like-it-is personality and he is more than friends with the man’s smiles and touches that bring men and women to bed. 

 

They have shared a night with one another during a spontaneous road trip to the other man’s hometown last year. Jongin has booked a motel room and Jongdae has sneaked in a bottle of Jaeger and a can of Red Bull for them to share, mixing the drink in tea cups and clinking the china like it’s afternoon tea at almost midnight. Giggling and out of their minds, the two of them have made use of the complementary packets of condoms and travel-sized lube, falling down on the scratchy bed covers and grappling naked on the sheets. Once they’re done, the bed sheet and the blankets are on the floor and they’re still slightly tipsy while arguing if the dent on the wall is something Jongin has put there with the sheer force of his fucking.

 

“We can do it again,” Jongdae says without preamble, breaking his thought process. He feels the other man sidle up to him, close enough that his body heat radiates on the coolness of the bar counter. The dance floor is teeming with grinding bodies out of sync to the music. Jongin cringes.

 

“What?” He turns to the older man, confused. The glass of sherry is held loosely in between his thumb and forefinger. The ice clinks once.

 

“You can fuck me,” the shorter male raises his shoulder slightly, eyes not leaving the group of girls in one of the corners. “Or I can fuck you. Whichever works for us tonight.”

 

Jongin splutters, “I have a boyfriend.”

 

Jongdae looks at him at _that,_ surprised and with a grimace. “You’re still with Baekhyun?”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with Baekhyun,” Jongin defends.

 

Jongdae eyes him critically and this—this is one of the most unnerving things about the man. Eyes like a hawk and a fortuneteller, he speaks slowly, “I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with him. It’s just that—” He takes a sip of his drink, purple and fruity and with an unholy amount of vodka. “—I thought you would have been over by now.”

 

“Well,” Jongin says, trying to inject as much pride as he can in his voice, “you’re clearly wrong.”

 

The older man rakes his eyes up and down Jongin, replying dryly, “You could do better than that when you’re convincing _me_.”

 

Silence passes between them and the music of the club settles in Jongin’s bones and joints like the alcohol in his system. There is a choreography on the tips of his toes up to the bent of his knee, on the span of his arms, and on the snap of his wrists extending to the length of his fingertips. He itches to break them free but Jongin fears the cold and the difficulty of the routine that is performing inside his mind like a theatrical piece.

 

“You okay?” Jongdae asks again after a moment. He hits his drink lightly on Jongin’s skin and the cool precipitation against the cooler glass does not alleviate the hotness clinging on him.

 

“Yeah. I think.” He finishes the remaining sherry, hopping down on the bar stool. “I’ll use the bathroom.”

 

Jongin turns away from his friend, raising his arm slightly in a wave. He squeezes in between the throngs of sweaty club goers and their skimpy clothes brush against the tight denim of his pants. The hallway to the men’s room is blessedly empty.

 

Before he pushes the door, he hears through the thin walls the sounds of distinctive moans of a name he can’t quite make out of. Figuring, hoping, that whoever is inside have the decency to at least keep what they are doing inside the bathroom stall, Jongin steels himself and enters.

 

Only to feel red hot anger replace the mild disgust from the idea of people getting it on in a club bathroom. 

 

Kyungsoo is sitting on top of the counter, legs splayed wide, as a tall man stands in between his thighs. He sees on the mirror the reflection of Kyungsoo’s back as large hands slip inside his jeans. Kyungsoo has his feet linked together on his partner’s slim waist, pushing the other’s ass closer as they rub together. His head is thrown back as another man presses trails kisses on the exposed pale skin from where he has rucked up Kyungsoo’s black t-shirt up to his armpits.

 

He grips the doorknob tightly, frozen in his spot. The man raises his head and he clenches his fist when he recognizes the tall figure nibbling on flawless skin. Sehun is a fellow instructor from a different department in the same university where Jongin is teaching, where Kyungsoo is studying.

 

There is something coiling in the pit of his stomach and Jongin knows what it is—hypocrisy.

 

He coughs and the couple jumps away. Kyungsoo almost bumps his head on the mirror if not for one of Oh Sehun’s hands flying fast to cradle his head, taking the brunt of the hit. 

 

“Jongin!” Kyungsoo beams brightly. Sehun is blushing down to his chest and there is an apparent tent on his trousers. The man on the counter waves, oblivious to the tension in the bathroom from the cloudiness of being drunk. “Whatcha doing here?”

 

“Uh—Kyungsoo,” Sehun brings down Kyungsoo’s shirt, hands clinical when he straightens the fabric on Kyungsoo’s tipping body. The other instructor buttons Kyungsoo’s jeans swiftly, still holding the man upright. Jongin steps inside the bathroom, closing the door behind him softly.

 

Sehun’s eyes go from Kyungsoo still smiling at Jongin and then at Jongin’s hulking form. He sees two and two, comes up with five and a question for the drunk man. “Do you know each other, Kyungsoo?”

 

“Yeah,” Kyungsoo replies immediately, nodding. “Jongin’s a lit prof. He teaches poetry.”

 

Sehun’s eyes widen a bit and Jongin supposes he will not have noticed it if not for the fact that he is staring intently. The taller man seems to be at lost for words before he whispers something in Kyungsoo’s ear. Jongin has not stepped in their space and he can only hear a slight mumble, can only see Sehun’s lips on Kyungsoo’s earlobe.

 

“I’m fine,” Kyungsoo murmurs softly. Sehun looks satisfied at that and he pecks Kyungsoo’s forehead before he hightails it out of the men’s room, not sparing Jongin a single glance or a parting word.

 

“Hi,” Kyungsoo says after a weighted beat. He is still sitting on top of the counter but the tip of his body has Jongin worrying. Striding to the man’s side, he holds the other upright—one hand high on his back and another on his shoulder. The air feels stifling. 

 

“Hi, Kyungsoo,” he replies. “Are you alone?”

 

“Kind of. I got here with Sehun but he left us both alone.”

 

Jongin does not want to ask _why_ so he keeps his mouth shut and changes topic, asking, “Do you have a ride home?”

 

Kyungsoo thinks for a moment before answering, uncertain, “I think?”

 

“Do you want me to bring you home?” Jongin brushes Kyungsoo’s black hair back, the strands stick to his forehead. He smells like the beer from the tap and the malt is so strong that Jongin wonders how many glasses Kyungsoo has chugged. The man does not answer after a few seconds so Jongin clarifies, in case the question has completely evaded Kyungsoo’s cognitive functions, “Are you comfortable if I bring you home to your address? Or if I call someone for you to pick you up? Maybe Sehun?”

 

“Not Sehun,” Kyungsoo grumbles without heat. He bends his head down and, at this level, his forehead hits Jongin’s shoulder perfectly. The angles of his neck does not look uncomfortable. Jongin does not move.

 

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo whispers. “You smell good.”

 

Jongin almost chokes on his spit when the other man’s lips trail from the clothed breadth of his shoulder up to the bare skin of his neck. Mouth parted, he feels hot breath fan on his already hot skin before plush lips make contact just behind Jongin’s ear. Kyungsoo’s nose caresses the back of Jongin’s earlobe and shivers trickle down Jongin’s spine leisurely, torturously unhurried.

 

Kyungsoo’s mouthing something but Jongin cannot understand the words from the loud ringing in his ears. He feels like his eardrums are about to shatter. Soft thighs wrapping around his midsection and hands linking on his nape, playing with the short strands of his dyed brown hair, are like ice water getting poured in his veins. He pushes Kyungsoo off of him, right hand on Kyungsoo’s chest and the other gripping his left arm tightly.

 

The other man detaches himself, asking, “No good?”

 

“I have a boyfriend,” Jongin sighs. He steps out from where he is in between Kyungsoo’s legs, sidestepping, and he brings the man’s knees shut. Kyungsoo does not protest but he leans his head sideways on the cold tile.

 

Kyungsoo gasps, “I’m sorry.”

 

“No,” Jongin says gently. “I’m the more sober one here. And you’re my student.”

 

“It’s not like I’m really a student,” the man grumbles, “I’m also a lecturer, you know?”

 

Jongin huffs out a laugh and he breathes lightly when the air is no longer thick anymore. Or thin. Whichever it is that has him breathing in sharp inhales and shallow exhales. He teases, “How much did you drink?”

 

“Not enough, that’s for sure,” Kyungsoo replies, slurs. He places his hands behind him, righting himself and leaning back. There is a beginning of pink on the line of his throat, just below his Adam’s apple. Jongin averts his eyes and looks into the mirror, staring at a stranger—wild eyes, pink high on defined cheekbones, fingers gripping the marble, white knuckles, quivering with tension.

 

“Sure,” Jongin indulges. He ruffles Kyungsoo’s hair, hand still slightly damp.

 

“You can look at my university ID,” Kyungsoo retorts. His face still looks red and his eyes are disoriented. His words are stumbling one after another and he is clumsy when he reaches for something inside his pocket. 

 

Jongin catches the wallet thrown at his direction and, at Kyungsoo’s prompting, he pries the leather open. There are cash, some cards, a worn out photo of Kyungsoo with an older couple that looks like he does. Jongin rifles through folded receipts and, in between the slip of bill from Family Mart and a blue sticky note, he finds the thin, hard plastic of an ID card. The same as his. And look at that, Kyungsoo’s older by a year, born two days before him.

 

He ignores it—the relief, the hope, everything.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On Sunday, Jongin wakes up at 6AM, body clock already resetting for his usual weekday schedule. He tries to chase what remains of his sleep but his phone pings twice just before he drifts off again. Rolling to the side of the bed and to the table where he keeps his phone, he gropes around until he finds the device. 

 

He runs his hands through his hair, tapping on the icon for his e-mail. He rubs his eyes, yawning, but he suddenly sits up when he sees the name and the subject header of the formal-looking message. 

 

_Do Kyungsoo. Lunch at 12?_

 

Jongin scans the mail with wide eyes and he keys in a quick reply. His knees feel weak even if he’s still in bed and it’s not from the injury from many years ago. One affirmative later and Jongin’s skin is buzzing with excitement, with something he cannot name, does not want to name, with denial, with fear, with apprehension, with joy.

 

Five hours and forty-five minutes later, Jogin finds himself dressed casually. May in Seoul is starting to get humid and he picks a black tee to tuck into a pair of blue skinnies. He loops his belt, the metal cold in his hands, and he tries to feign streetwear chic by putting on a pair of slip ons.

 

Kyungsoo is waiting for him in the family restaurant when he arrives. He looks nervous, jittery, and Jongin reduces the spring in his steps when he slides on the other side of the booth. The glass of cold water in front of Kyungsoo is empty by a fourth and there is a small puddle wetting the paper mat. 

 

“How long have you been waiting?” Jongin asks. “I thought I was early.”

 

“Only ten minutes,” Kyungsoo smiles, ducks his head. Jongin smiles to himself when he sees Kyungsoo peeking from where he is running his eyes on the food choices towards the colorful collection of ink on Jongin’s forearm, dancing on his skin upwards until the lines and the patterns disappear on the sleeve of his shirt. Kyungsoo tries to appear casual, gesturing to the menu placed on the corner of the table, saying, almost demanding, “Order anything you want—my treat. An apology for tricking you.”

 

“I’m not really mad.” Jongin waves him off. “Kinda my fault for being stupid and assuming you’re a student.”

 

He peruses the menu and he flips between several pages before deciding on a plate of Japanese curry and a glass of iced tea. Kyungsoo hails the waiter when he has decided and Jongin lists his order just as Kyungsoo places his—omurice, no ketchup and extra mayo, with a glass of lemonade. 

 

Comfortable silence passes through as they wait for their food and the service must be good because, not even ten minutes later, the waiter brings out their lunch, still steaming and freshly cooked. Jongin watches with a smile as Kyungsoo holds the spoon, digging on the corner of the perfectly shaped soft egg. It’s a clean cut, the curve of the utensil pushes the rice inside and they don’t spill all over the white plate. Kyungsoo brings the food inside his mouth, carefully, hand cupped underneath the spoon in case something falls down, and he wraps his lips around the aluminum completely, making a satisfied sound.

 

Jongin eats his meal too, mixing a small portion of the curry with the rice before spooning it inside his mouth. He chews the food carefully, eyes not leaving Kyungsoo, and the man looks up and catches his stare.

 

“Do I have food around my mouth?” Kyungsoo asks, unfazed and already going for the stack of tissues provided for the customers for free.

 

“No,” Jongin shakes his head. He takes a sip of his iced tea, the cold drawing a line on his trachea. “This feels weird.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Sitting across from you and knowing you’re also a lit instructor. Also, I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you’re older that I am.” Jongin remarks. He lets the smile on his face grow bigger, not restraining the curve of his lips. It’s a Sunday in May.

 

Kyungsoo laughs and Jongin figures Kyungsoo is still Kyungsoo. It is warm and true, tinkling, a little bit like a spring brook—clear and deep, dream-like. A chuckle erupts from his lips, unwarranted. Kyungsoo is infectious.

 

“I honestly thought you knew,” Kyungsoo shrugs. He takes the time to take another bite of his food, this time larger, and Jongin stifles another laugh at the way Kyungsoo opens his mouth wide to accommodate the portion of omurice. He adds, “I mean, I thought you had an idea, at least.”

 

“Nope,” Jongin pops the letter p. “The department is large, to be fair, and I have never seen you in the offices either.”

 

Kyungsoo nods his head. “I don’t like being cooped up in my office. I’m usually in the library, to be honest. Or hanging out with Sehun.”

 

There he is. Sehun.

 

“Sehun is…” Jongin trails off, allowing Kyungsoo to fill the silence with his label. Instead, he gets a shrug and Kyungsoo shoving another spoonful in his mouth. There is a stray streak of mayonnaise of the corner of his lips. Jongin’s fingers on his lap twitch but he clenches them into fist and settles on gesturing the mess to Kyungsoo.

 

The older man—and wow, that is weird—wipes the condiment off with a tissue, apologetic and a little embarrassed. Jongin lets go of the Sehun topic, figuring it is not his place to ask any more questions. They are not friends, at least not yet, though Jongin wants them to be—

 

“Sure,” Kyungsoo chirps and _oops_ , Jongin has said that out loud. “You’re interesting. Even if you can’t pronounce Alexander Pushkin right.”

 

Jongin groans, “We can’t all be fluent in Russian.”

 

“True,” Kyungsoo remarks.

 

“Why did you,” Jongin asks just as Kyungsoo does, “Are you always—”

 

They both laugh loudly, exuberant, and Jongin sees Kyungsoo’s eyes disappear like he’s closing them. His lips form a perfect heart and this is the first time Jongin has seen him smile this close, the first time he has seen anyone’s mouth form like that. 

 

“You first,” Kyungsoo gestures with a nod. He places his head on his hand, elbow on the table, just as his other hand plays with the straw on his drink. Jongin notices the figure eights Kyungsoo is drawing on the rippling of the light yellow of the lemonade.

 

“I was going to ask why you’re so fluent in Russian. Or well, you seem fluent to me,” Jongin pushes his plate to the side a little. From the tilt of Kyungsoo’s head, Jongin can make out the cutting relief of his jawline. Kyungsoo is Shakespeare’s 20th sonnet personified, objectively—all muted and subdued in juxtaposition with the strength of his rough edges and imperfections.

 

Kyungsoo smiles and he stops playing with his straw. His finger slides down the glass and it starts drumming on the table in the distinctive tempo that Jongin guesses to be as something composed by Rachmaninoff. He hums, replies softly, “I’ve always been interested in Russian literature. The first time I’ve read a Tolstoy and found out it was a translation, I told myself that I wanted to read it raw. The way the author has intended for me to read it.”

 

He looks down, grabs his spoon and cuts a portion of his food. The rice spills out, finally crumbling down. For someone who has bothered to eat carefully, Jongin watches Kyungsoo not care. The other man bites down on his spoon this time, lips not wrapping on the utensil, and he chews his food meticulously, like he’s counting the number.

 

“That’s—” Jongin tries to find his voice, tries to find a word, but he chokes on the multitudes of adjectives sticking on the back of his throat.

 

“Weird?” Kyungsoo offers. Insecurity blankets the tone of his voice, low and hesitant. The drumming of his fingers stop in the middle of what Jongin remembers to be a crescendo, a cut-off climax in the beat from a composition that he thinks is made up of multiple high points.As if he’s not content with one words, Kyungsoo adds, suggests, “Obsessive?”

 

“ _Amazing_ ,” Jongin breathes out. The infinite descriptions on the tip of his tongue stay there but honesty spills first before he can put a lid on it. “Dedicated.”

 

The smile that flowers on Kyungsoo’s face is so bright, so sincere, that Jongin wants to keep the other man’s lips pulled tight like that—ear to ear—for the rest of their meal. 

 

Maybe longer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It has been two weeks since he and Kyungsoo have shared a meal together for the first time. Since then, Jongin has been more aware of the other male’s presence. He thinks it’s a little like finally being able to see, maybe, the first rays of morning sunlight. Kyungsoo makes himself at home in Jongin’s peripheral vision and he feels like a nagging ghost. 

 

Suddenly, Jongin sees him in the quad, lugging around five hardbound tomes that has him jogging over to help the man. He goes to the library and, in the foreign sections, he will see Kyungsoo with his knees pulled up to his chest, comfortably fitting on the chair as he reads a book that is published in Cyrillic. Kyungsoo’s fingers will trail after the words, eyes following his hand—sometimes even both hands, depending on his reading position—and trying not to lose the thought or himself, completely absorbed in a different world. In times like that, Jongin will grab something in French, pulling out his dictionary, as he waits for Kyungsoo to breathe out that particular sigh—wistfulness for something that has not finished yet running over the admiration for world building and the longwinded sentence structures of anything Russian. Jongin knows the sigh means that Kyungsoo, and he have to get up and put their respective books off for another time.

 

Suddenly, they are having lunch together, either in the university cafeteria or in one of the many establishments around the campus. Suddenly, Jongin has Kyungsoo’s phone number saved on his contacts and his on Kyungsoo’s as they exchange links of dog videos on KakaoTalk. 

 

Despite all of this, the older man has consistently attended his lectures and Jongin wonders how many of his students know that Kyungsoo is, in actuality, another instructor. Kyungsoo submits the required weekly poetry and they would meet outside of class to discuss Kyungsoo’s composition, critiquing and analyzing like it’s a thrown object in front of them, detached and alienated.

 

It has been two weeks since he and Kyungsoo have shared a meal together for the first time and suddenly, Jongin measures the in-betweens and the lapses of time in that manner, comparing them to the unusual heat of that one day in the first week of May and the taste of curry on his tongue mingling with the floral notes of honey on the iced tea.

 

And so, it has also been two weeks since he and Kyungsoo have shared a meal together for the first time when everything that is Byun Baekhyun boils over after they have not contacted each other for close to ten days already. Or nine. Jongin feels guilty not keeping count.

 

Jongin is grading papers from one of his classes—Korean Wartime Literature—when the doorbell of his apartment buzzes thrice in successive insistence. He pushes his chair away and caps his red pen before opening the door just beside his working space.

 

Baekhyun barrels inside, mouth hungry on Jongin’s lips and hands uncoordinated on the button of Jongin’s trousers. Standing on his tiptoes, he manages to push Jongin on the wall, pressing his weight down on to keep him in place. His lips are moving against Jongin’s, teeth scraping in relentless pursuit to get the taller man hot and willing. The door is left open.

 

Jongin’s hands come up on Baekhyun’s shoulders, wrenching him and placing a distance between their bodies. “Front door,” he complains. The shorter male nods, kicking it shut and clicking the lock in place, before he continues where he has left off.

 

“Bedroom?” Jongin asks when Baekhyun’s fingers slip inside the cotton of his boxers, stroking his half-hard cock into fullness. The other man shakes his head as he mindlessly ruts on Jongin’s leg. He pulls pops the button on Baekhyun’s jeans, pulling the zipper down and dragging the man’s boxer briefs on the tops of his thighs. He shimmies out of his bottoms, letting the garments pool on his ankle and Baekhyun’s lips are pressing sticky kisses on his collarbone, nipping on the skin and licking.

 

He rubs their erections together and Jongin grows more heated at the sight of Baekhyun’s fingers curled around both of their dicks, half-way managing to fit their combined girth in the circle formed with his long fingers, not even meeting together. Jongin thrusts on the older man’s hands, upwards, and the frustration builds up, tense, and spills over a pale hand in thick spurts of white, as he chases the orgasm with his own hand, disentangling from the older man’s hold. Baekhyun does not mind; he just slathers Jongin’s come on his sensitive skin, thumbing the slit on the head, as his stroking becomes more erratic. Jongin watches the display, breathing in the smell of sex, but the tiredness he is feeling is bone-deep, limbs heavy and tongue dry.

 

He reaches for Baekhyun’s flat stomach, tracing his abs and he scrapes his blunt fingernails on the sensitive spot inches below the man’s navel. Baekhyun tightens his hold and Jongin does not have to do much before Baekhyun is quietly groaning out gibberish as he comes on his own hand. Jongin removes his own t-shirt, wiping down the trails of semen as much as they can.

 

There is a frown on Baekhyun’s face. Jongin has exchanged a hand job with his boyfriend on the entryway of his home. He sighs, putting his boxers on and stepping out of his pants. He’ll put them in the laundry together with the shirt. It’s time that he gets a shower anyway.

 

Baekhyun stuffs his flaccid member inside his underwear, pulling his jeans up and buttoning himself swiftly. His face is a perfect canvas of blank neutrality. 

 

“Baek,” Jongin begins, cautious and so, so tired. “Do you want to stay the night?”

 

The older man is quiet but he nods after a moment, a slight bob of the head. He places a kiss on the man’s black hair and the other male stiffens in his hold, shoulders too straight. Jongin steps away.

 

He gives Baekhyun the chance to shower first, even telling him he can run himself a bath on the clawfoot tub. Jongin expects to wait for a long time but Baekhyun is out in less than fifteen minutes, hair damp and smelling of Jongin’s shampoo and body wash. He has no clothes in Jongin’s apartment, maybe the occasional tee or underwear, so he digs out a pair of sweats and a well-worn raglan shirt for the man before he, too, steps beneath the hot spray of water. He takes his time cleaning himself, humming Rachmaninoff under his breath as he soaps the stickiness of semen away.

 

The water has already turned cool when he steps out of the shower, fresh boxers on and nothing else, and he pads his way to his bedroom. He opens the door carefully and he is not surprised when he sees Baekhyun already on his side of the bed, curled in on himself and making his usual sleeping noises. Sometimes, they make it harder for Jongin to sleep but the lethargy is pulling him to dreamland fast.

 

He falls asleep facing Baekhyun, knees bent slightly, and there is less than a foot between their sleeping figures. Before he succumbs to the darkness of sleep, Jongin cannot help but think that he and Baekhyun have become farther from each other right at that very moment and he wonders how possible it is to lie beside another person on a queen bed and yet feel so alone.

 

In the morning, he wakes up to an empty apartment. The sun filters through the large windows, almost floor to ceiling. They have forgotten to close the blackout curtains before bedtime.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kyungsoo is inside Jongin’s office, sitting on the window sill among the stack of books. He looks at home leaning on a tall pile of literature—contemporary, wartime, ancient East Asian, autobiographies, a scientific journal, a fashion magazine. His feet dangle from the ground and Jongin has turned his desk chair so he is also facing Kyungsoo. Their knees almost bump into each other from the cramped space of the room.

 

Kyungsoo is peeling the tangerines he has brought and Jongin is worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. The acid bursts inside the room before the sweetness of the fruit wafts in to their noses.The older man shucks the rind on the waste basket near his left foot. Kyungsoo looks up from where he is divesting a soft section, fingers gripping them loosely and cleaning the white skin, before he extends the morsel towards Jongin’s mouth.

 

Wordlessly, he takes the piece of tangerine and his lips brush against Kyungsoo’s fingers just as the juice explodes in his tongue, tangy and a little saccharine. Kyungsoo takes a piece for himself, chewing and savoring the taste, a smile playing on his lips, introspective. Dust floats in the room and it throws glitter across the spaces of the office, creating a million of polka-dotted shadows across their skin and the book covers. 

 

“You’re going to bruise yourself,” Kyungsoo chides. He pushes another piece of fruit into Jongin’s mouth before he taps the taller man’s cheek gently, twice. “What’s got you biting your lip like that?”

 

Kyungsoo is less than Jongdae because Jongin has never felt his mouth on his bare skin and his tight heat around his cock but Kyungsoo is also more than Jongdae because he’s Kyungsoo and Jongin knows he prefers not eating breakfast and just drinking straight black coffee with a single Splenda packet and he never finishes his cigarette before he throws them away.

 

He rests his forearms on his thighs, links his fingers together and, like a child, starts twiddling his thumbs. The tremble on his digits are back and it is a different kind of anxiety—anxiety over admittance, over honesty, over what is inevitable. He answers simply, “Baekhyun.”

 

“Ah. Your boyfriend.” Kyungsoo has met Baekhyun twice.

 

Jongin hears the realization cross on Kyungsoo’s voice and, from his position, he sees the man’s small feet stop moving. Kyungsoo crosses his ankles together and Jongin raises his head, peeks his eyes out, before looking at the other man fully.

 

“What about him? Are you both okay?” He asks, interested and concerned, sincere. Kyungsoo has the two left over sections of the tangerine still unseparated and Jongin opens his mouth dutifully so the older man can slip the remaining fruit inside. 

 

Jongin chews thoughtfully, trying to come up with a concise explanation, before shrugging, “It’s not working out.”

 

Kyungsoo searches for something and Jongin reaches behind him, pulling out a packet of wet wips from one of his drawers. He grasps Kyungsoo’s hands in one of his, using the other to clean the stickiness clinging on his fingertips from the tangerine. Once he’s satisfied, he drops the used wipe on the basket, adds in a manner of defense, “I don’t want to break up.”

 

The older man tilts his head, asks, “Why?”

 

Jongin stiffens at that, caught unaware with the other male’s question. He toys with the fabric of his black slacks, dragging his nails on the material, answers, “I feel guilty. A little. A lot. He hasn’t done anything and Baekhyun deserves better than a shitty break up.”

 

Kyungsoo’s lips twist in a smile. And there he is again—looking like a Da Vinci masterpiece, out of reach, secretive. The words come out of Kyungsoo’s mouth in a whisper, as if he is sharing the answer to the origin of the universe. He says, “And you deserve better than a shitty relationship.”

 

Jongin can feel his eyes widen and he clenches his hands into tight fists. Silence passes and the light from outside casts an eerie shadow in the small room. The silhouette of the trees swaying in the breeze dances the same way Jongin will not be able to do. Not anymore.

 

Kyungsoo takes his wallet out and he rummages for something before he hands Jongin a receipt long receipt from the grocery store. He reads through it—a glimpse of Kyungsoo’s life from the lines of purchase and the total bill—and he smiles at the number of ramyun packs. Kyungsoo knows how to cook and it’s no surprise to see things like firm soybean tofu, bell peppers, eggs, chicken, herbs, a carton of milk, and honey chips.

 

“Flip it,” Kyungsoo says with an amused huff. Jongin does so and he sees the other man’s familiar scrawl. The english alphabet is large and loopy, taking up the entire width of receipt in the light press of their ink against paper. Kyungsoo never presses his ballpoint pens heavily.

 

And, that’s right. Tomorrow is a Friday.

 

“You should have submitted your post-modern poem in an A4 paper,” Jongin fake scolds. Kyungsoo grins at him, shaking his head.

 

“I’m not a student, officially.”

 

Jongin lets it go with a laugh and makes a show of turning away to grab his red pen from the holder on his table. He scans the poetry and he figures it is the universe playing him when he realizes the theme he has assigned for his students.

 

Falling in love.

 

He eyes Kyungsoo’s work critically, lazy chicken scratch on the rough sheet of the supermarket receipt. Jongin reads the words carefully, marvels a little at the creative structure. Kyungsoo creates a picture with the the combination of his letters, untitled and open.

 

_love is not_

_falling_

_in love_

 

_you do not love a person_

_because of the butterflies_

_or the ten-foot drop_

 

_you do not love a person_

_for the sole reason that_

_they can make you feel_

 

_love is not_

_f a_

_ll_

 

_in_

_g_

 

“How incredibly post-modernist of you,” Jongin teases. He ignores the heavy weight suddenly lodged on his chest and he thinks he is getting good at evading when he almost, _almost,_ forgets about everything, letting Kyungsoo’s poetry come alive from the thin paper of his grocery bill.

 

“I tried. I’m not that much of a poet. I’m sure you have noticed.” Kyungsoo shrugs and he starts swinging his legs again. He says, “I did not really understand your topic.”

 

Jongin smiles, folding and unfolding the small corner of the paper. Looking up, he says, “It’s _falling in love_ in general. I’m surprised you subverted the theme. Though, now that I think about it, I should have not been. The poem is very… _you_.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Yes,” Jongin answers without hesitation. He uncaps his pen with his mouth, scribbling a large B+ on the paper with a laugh. “I would have given you this high of a grade if you were my student.”

 

“If I was your student, I would not be here peeling fruits inside your office,” Kyungsoo retorts. He places both of his hands in between his thighs, leaning forward in Jongin’s space to read the words that he has written upside down. After a moment, he mutters, “People are so preoccupied with the falling part that they forget about the love.”

 

Jongin’s eyes travel from the words, down to up, flickering on Kyungsoo’s legs before resting on the top of Kyungsoo’s bent head. He asks, “You don’t think it’s the same thing?”

 

Kyungsoo shakes his head minutely, making a _nuh-uh_ sound. “Falling is a process, right? Active participation from both parties and all that. But love is a state, I think. Like something calm, steady, boring.”

 

“Love is not boring,” Jongin laughs a little. “But I see where you are coming from.”

 

“Sometimes,” Kyungsoo trails off. Jongin cannot see his expression but he imagines it is something soft—soft something, soft whatever. He continues, “You have to let go and catch yourself. Or else you will get your bones broken.”

 

Jongin’s breath hitches in his throat, lungs hot with flames. He knows the feeling of broken bones intimately, passionately, painfully—especially when broken bones leave not only a fractured skeleton but destroyed dreams and a shell of a person.

 

Kyungsoo looks up but his gaze is trained on Jongin’s right. Their eyes do no meet each other; Jongin is looking through the glass, at the swaying trees distorted by the window panes.

 

The smell of tangerine lingers in the warm air. They both know neither of them are talking about the poem Kyungsoo has written.

 

 

_{ little by little, your sighs breathe life_

_to the death in my very bones_

_your kisses keep me alive and_

_your hugs are the suns that keep me warm }_

 

 

In the end, Baekhyun beats him to it. 

 

Summer threatens to swallow the coolness of spring as the end of the semester looms close. Jongin brings some of his work home and, despite the talk—if it can be called that—with Kyungsoo, there is a table in a nice restaurant located in Garosu-gil for a 7PM dinner. Jongin tells himself it’s for his sixth month anniversary with Baekhyun.

 

One week before the occasion, Baekhyun drops by unannounced in Jongin’s apartment and a sense of _déjà vu_ is thick in the humid air except there are no spontaneous kisses and no wandering hands. Baekhyun does not press Jongin’s back on the wall and he does not go up on his toes to eat the words off of Jongin’s mouth with his prodding tongue.

 

Instead, Baekhyun walks inside with Chinese take out, shaking the plastic bag with a sheepish smile. Jongin lets him inside and the quiet of the apartment is awkward.

 

The older man roots for the paper packets of chopsticks and Jongin leans on the metal island as Baekhyun puts their dinner on the table.

 

“What are doing standing there for?” Baekhyun shoots him a grin. It’s dim and it fails to light up the entire room. The large rectangle of his smile shoots a sharp pain on Jongin’s chest. The smaller man gestures for Jongin to come closer, says, “Sit down, Jongin. I’m not going to stab you with disposable chopsticks.”

 

Jongin chuckles at that and something in his chest comes undone. He sits on the left side, the one closer to the window and farther from the door. Baekhyun sits beside him and their eyes are trained on the open cupboards on the other side of the kitchen-dining area. 

 

“Dig in,” Jongin says, looking sideways at Baekhyun. The older man complies, eating his sweet and sour pork slowly, and Jongin’s apartment is quiet once again except for the sound of chewing and the loud slurping of the stir fried noodles. Their shoulders barely brush with the distance between their seats.

 

Jongin is almost finished with his when he looks at Baekhyun again. The other man’s food is barely touched. He asks, tries to inject some enthusiasm to his question, “Do you want some wine? Chinese and boxed alcohol?”

 

He stands up but Baekhyun shakes his head and finally, speaks up. “No. I—Jongin—”

 

The man pauses, stops, trails. The word disappears to thin air as Baekhyun takes a deep breath. Jongin’s knuckles are white from where he is gripping the table, still standing, and Baekhyun’s pretty fingers are shaking.

 

“Baek—” He whispers, stepping closer. Baekhyun puts a hand to stop him, creating a barrier that Jongin cannot cross.

 

“We should stop fooling ourselves.” Baekhyun laughs wryly. It sounds bitter to Jongin’s ears. “We know where we’re both going.”

 

Jongin feels numb all over but, at the same time, another knot loosens. He opens his mouth but Baekhyun cuts him off again.

 

“Don’t say anything, please.” His voice chips, trembles. Baekhyun’s broad shoulders look small when they are hunched like that, inwards, scared. “I don’t want to hear you say the wrong things.”

 

Jongin lets go of the table and he wrings them together in front of him. Baekhyun’s eyes are shimmering. He cracks, stuttering, “I-I’m sorry, Baekhyun. I really am.”

 

The older man wipes his eyes furiously. He sounds like a child, voice wet and breathing shallow, “I know that. You’re not happy and I’m not happy anymore. Neither of us made an effort. I know that and I’m sorry too.”

 

He hiccups and then, jokingly, he adds, “I’m being kind and breaking up before you buy me something for our sixth month anniversary.”

 

Baekhyun’s words slides into soft sobs and Jongin’s heart breaks just as another knot loosens. There is an ache but there is also something light, like time has gone backwards and has made it spring again. 

 

“Can I hug you?” Jongin asks, pleads. Baekhyun nods his head and Jongin stoops low, pulling Baekhyun in a standing position so he can envelop the shaking man in his arms. There are also tears brimming on his eyes.

 

The two of them hold each other like that, cupping their entire existence within the cradle of their long limbs. Baekhyun sobs on Jongin’s shirt and the taller man shuts his eyes when Baekhyun says, accusing, “You never even told me the story of your tattoos. Or your past.”

 

He knows.

 

The last string breaks free and Jongin suddenly wants to fly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **comments honestly keep me motivated so please leave one, even on anon.** and you can even direct your questions for me in there or mention/DM me on twt.
> 
>  
> 
> [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/official_KJD21)


	2. taking a new step, uttering a new word, is what people fear most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from crime and punishment. heads up for the failed sex. i'm literally just exposing my literary preferences here so. 
> 
> anyways, the quotes are mostly from goodreads because my ass does not ever highlight lines or paragraphs from the books i read.
> 
> unbeta-ed.

_{ i love you little by little_

_with my heart on your lips_

_and your lips on my heart;_

_i will love you like this. }_

 

 

Neon lights and street lamps refract through the polluted Seoul night, overflow through the passers-by walking in hurry on a Saturday night. The watch on Kyungsoo’s left wrist shows the short hand at almost seven and the long one just before the small number nine. He is a little early, he supposes. Kyungsoo has a habit of always being late, enjoying the fleeting scenery en route to his destination.

 

Garosu-gil is one excess after another—ostentatious buildings trying hard to create faux vintage with new metal and purposefully messed up bricks, shabby chic blending with imported designer. Kyungsoo wears a suit that he has bought off of the rack of a high street European brand. The entire thing costs a little more than the silk neckties displayed on the glass cases from stores alongside the strip of Gangnam. His shoes are black leather, locally sourced and hand-made. The scent of his perfume has yet to dry into something sweet and floral, only smelling like sandalwood and musk with a slight undertone of roses. It is one of Kyungsoo’s limited luxuries—a 200,000 Won perfume bottle imported from France.

 

The leather soles of his shoes hit the concrete in rhythm. Kyungsoo walks even, straight, with his hands clasped behind his back. He does it a little slower, enjoying the rush of the people around him. This is another of his luxuries, being able to take his time when other people are already losing theirs.

 

There is a small smile playing on his lips and the street lamps make the silver of his watch glint like expensive diamonds. Kyungsoo has never blended well in Garosu-gil despite living in an apartment that has him strolling for a little over thirty-five minutes to the restaurant where he and Jongin will meet.

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes explore the novelty that is the area. He prefers the young urban of Myeongdong or the eclectic artistry of Hongdae over the high society of Gangnam. Areas like this, Kyungsoo has and will never understand. A purring car passes by in cherry red and several people turn to look. Kyungsoo notices _The Greyspace_ and he hurries just a little bit.

 

Tucked in a corner beside a high-end clothing store and a mid-rise building made of glass and steel, straight architecture of cold money, _The Greyspace_ is all exposed bricks in faded red and thin metal railings painted in black, curling into intricate patters among themselves before gradually drifting apart.The juxtaposition is an artwork in itself. Someone opens the door for Kyungsoo and he breathes the small chatter and the bright lights inside. Something smells like butter and tarragon.

 

“Do you have a reservation, Sir?” For a place that needs a two-week notice in advance, the man who asks Kyungsoo is surprisingly not stuffed inside a penguin suit. In a pleated white shirt with a stiff wing tip collar, the smile on the man’s face makes him feel at ease. A little out of place. There is a small brooch pinned on him that is shaped like the head of some hunting hound. 

 

“Yes,” Kyungsoo answers after a moment. “7PM under a Kim Jongin.”

 

The man’s smile widens and he says, “Right this way, Sir. Mr. Kim has already arrived,” before leading Kyungsoo away from the entrance. The man takes him away from the center of the room, away from the windows, and the mingling sounds of mindless chitchat fade away in to a low buzz that is no different from the white noise of Kyungsoo’s day to day. It puts him at ease.

 

Jongin spots him first. Or maybe they have spotted each other at the same time. The man is sitting on the chair, back in a lazy hunch. Jongin makes bad posture look editorial. The younger man’s lips bring forth a smile and Kyungsoo waves because, of course, he does.

 

“Hi,” Jongin greets, standing up and giving him a hug. Kyungsoo returns it with affection and he runs his hand on Jongin’s back. The man who has led Kyungsoo leaves with a promise that someone will be with them to take their order.

 

“Good evening,” Kyungsoo says, bows a little. Jongin is dressed in a suit that looks costly. Unlike him, the younger man cares for trivial things such as style and fashion, maybe even interior design. “I don’t know how these things work.”

 

Jongin chuckles and he gestures for Kyungsoo to the chair across from him. The shorter male does, unbuttoning his suit jacket so it lays nicely on his body while he is sitting down. Kyungsoo smooths his dark suit pants and his hands fiddle with the hem of his jacket underneath the table.

 

The younger lecturer asks, “You’ve never been on a date.”

 

Huffing indignantly, the elder defends, “I’ve never been on a date where I have to wear a suit.”

 

Kyungsoo sees Jongin smile at that and before he can retort, a waiter comes to get their order. He browses through the menu that is handed to him and the card stock is heavy between his palms, unscented. Under the lights of the room, Jongin’s chestnut hair looks more red, more vibrant.

 

He orders a plate of filet mignon and Jongin opts for seared almond-crusted tuna. They have a large bowl of a summer arugula salad to share and a bottle of red that is dry enough for the fish with a body that can still complement the beef that Kyungsoo has wanted. _The Greyspace,_ apparently, is famous for their good-looking waiters with a penchant for matching wines.

 

“I’m glad you agreed to come with me,” Jongin says once the waiter has left, back straight and walking briskly. The younger man adds, “I would have wasted a perfectly good reservation, otherwise.”

 

“It’s not a bother,” Kyungsoo shrugs, smiling, “I’ve never tried their food here but the reviews online are absolutely raving about the place.”

 

He cannot help but wonder why their conversation sounds so stilted, so fake, but before Kyungsoo can do anything about it, Jongin laughs softly. Hands on his nape rubbing in a self-conscious manner, the taller brunet sighs, “I’m really sorry if this is making you uncomfortable.”

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes widen, surprised at how good Jongin is at reading him. He crosses his legs and his hands stop playing with the hem of his sleeves, settling on top of his knee. His left thumb caresses the skin on his right hand in an attempt at comfort.

 

“I told you,” he explains, “I don’t really do much of this.”

 

Realization seems to dawn on Jongin’s face and when he leans forward, his face is a little more open and understanding. The highlights of his hair shift and the shadows being casted on his chiseled features make him look more severe, just a tad more arrogant. A smile blooms on his mouth and suddenly, the aloof façade that contours Jongin’s face softens into something kinder.

 

“If it helps, you can think of this as a friendly date,” the younger man assures. His eyes are drooped and a strand of hair escapes from the debonair updo he has styled it into. “It’s not like we are a couple, Kyungsoo.”

 

The older of the two nods with a smile and the tension that he is not even aware of bled out of his shoulders. He sits a little more relaxed now, hunched like Jongin. Unlike the other man though, Kyungsoo is sure he just looks lazy.

 

Before long, their food arrives and Kyungsoo gulps at the perfectly brown meat. Jongin’s meal looks appetizing too, objectively, but he is not in the mood for anything fishy tonight. The waiter uncorks the bottle of wine and he takes each of their glasses by the thin stem. Kyungsoo watches as the man pours the alcohol, right hand steady around the bottle and left hand lightly holding the other forearm, until the glass is a little more than half-full. The man does the same for Jongin before he replaces the wine bottle in to the ice bucket. The cubes crunch together as the waiter tips the bottle just slightly to the side.

 

With a giggle, Kyungsoo shuffles closer, covering his mouth with his hands and whispering to Jongin, “I can’t believe we’re going to pay _that much_ for a wine bottle and we can’t even drink a full glass in one go.”

 

Jongin snorts, a quiet unattractive thing that somehow makes him more endearing. “We have to keep appearances.”

 

Kyungsoo shrugs, “Next time, a _pojangmacha_ is enough. Or I can cook for us.”

 

“This is supposed to be my sixth month anniversary dinner with Baekhyun, remember?” Jongin automatically answers. Kyungsoo’s face drops and an apology rests on his tongue before the younger man waves him off with a, “It’s a break up that is bound to happen. We stayed as friends.”

 

Kyungsoo glides the knife through the soft cut of beef, tilts his head and asks, “How is it possible to stay friends with your ex?”

 

He watches as Jongin chews thoughtfully, making little noises, before he takes a sip of his wine. “Well, we didn’t really exchange any harsh words or got into any physical fights. Thankfully.”

 

Kyungsoo smiles, teasing, “Baekhyun would have wiped the floor with your flat ass.”

 

“Hey!” Jongin mock glares. Kyungsoo notes the slight quiver on the other man’s lips and he knows it is a smile, or boisterous laughter inappropriate for the place perhaps, that is threatening to break out. Like an afterthought, the younger male says, “And I don’t have a flat ass.”

 

Kyungsoo grins impishly and he makes a show of picking his wine glass by the stem, swirling the red liquid and letting the smell waft on his nose. There is something fruity about it underneath the sharp tang. He lets the alcohol roll inside his mouth, on his tongue and behind his teeth, before swallowing. He says to the still slightly pouting Jongin, “You have no ass to speak of, Jongin.”

 

The man grumbles but his mouth twitches again. “Just because you have junk—”

 

“Don’t!”

 

“—in the trunk does not mean that you can belittle us less fortunate,” Jongin says and there is a brief moment of silence before he bursts into laughter. The giggles rack his body and his eyes disappear with how hard his lips are stretched. Jongin has perfect teeth.

 

“I can’t believe you quoted Black Eyed Peas,” Kyungsoo says dryly.

 

“I can’t believe you know Black Eyed Peas,” Jongin retorts, nudging his right shoulder twice towards the empty air.

 

“For your information,” Kyungsoo grits out of his teeth. He feels warm all over and his first glass is not even half finished. Jongin is like alcohol—lowering his inhibitions with his charming smiles and his sense of humor. “I do keep up with pop culture. I listen to Kpop, you know? Just like TT.”

 

“Oh my god,” Jongin breathes out, eyes popping out of their socket. His hands are shaking, gripping the silver utensils tightly. His cheeks are red and his eyes are sparkling with unshed tears. He has not stopped smiling since Kyungsoo has sat down. “You listen to Twice?”

 

“And some more other groups,” he says. With a judging stare, he asks, “Do you think I only listen to, what, Mozart?”

 

The grin on Jongin’s lips morphs into something more boyish. He looks younger when he says, teases, “I assumed you like Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky better, honestly. What with your fluency in Russian and all that.”

 

Kyungsoo picks up his wine glass, taking a long sip to hide his small smile. Jongin is right in his assumption.

 

 

[]

 

 

Summer eats away the last tendrils of spring with its humidity and high sun. Kyungsoo goes to his intersession classes dressed down in tees and loose jeans or khakis. His glasses slip down his nose from the beading sweat lining the high slope of his nose. He watches as Jongin trades his button down for light long-sleeved shirts and then, when Seoul turn into a modern hellhole, he swaps them for plain t-shirts. He sees the swirling ink in blue and red and purple; the black is stark against bronze skin. 

 

Kyungsoo traces Jongin’s tattoos with the heavy weight of his stare. Three days after the pictures carefully crafted on the younger man’s skin disappear comfortably under his cotton short sleeves, he gathers the courage to ask permission to touch. Kyungsoo has always loved masterpieces and the weight of his gaze turns into featherlight touches creeping on Jongin’s skin. He watches as the man’s pupils dilate with contact. Jongin is biting his bottom lip. Heat crackles in Kyungsoo’s stomach.

 

Jongin becomes a constant fixture in Kyungsoo’s everyday. The book that is Kim Jongin is shelved within the Russian classics piled high nearest to Kyungsoo’s bed inside his compact studio apartment. He trips over the pages that comprise the existence of the younger man, finds himself running his hands all over the book spine. These are his favorites.

 

Before long, the vibrancy of summer fades away into the muted reds and oranges of autumn. The colors shift just as the tattoos on Jongin’s person are lost underneath knit and wool. The change in temperature ushers in the fall semester slowly. Kyungsoo invites Jongin in his studio two nights before they have to teach undergraduates again.

 

They chase the ends of August as they spill inside Kyungsoo’s private space. Jongin fumbles with his shoes and Kyungsoo turns the light on. His studio apartment comes into view all at once and Jongin looks up while he’s in the middle of untying the braided laces of his leather shoes, kneeling on the wood of Kyungsoo’s floor.

 

“It’s a little cramped,” Kyungsoo admits sheepishly. Unlike Jongin, he carelessly toes off his sneakers before lining it neatly on the shoe rack near the door. 

 

“It’s cute,” Jongin laughs. “Small—like you.”

 

“Ha ha,” Kyungsoo mocks. His entire life fits inside the confines of less than sixty square foot somewhere near the pricey Gangnam. There is a queen-sized bed pushed far back and a low shelf overbrimming with hard bounds, leather bounds, paper backs, and loose leaves. Some of them are written in Cyrillic, in English, and in Korean. The walls are a neutral shade but the room pops with the addition of subtle color. The couch is black and and the coffee table looks heavy. His office desk is meticulously organized near the cabinet where he stuffs his clothes. The dark floor contrasts with the white wood of his furnitures.

 

“You don’t have a dining table,” Jongin observes with a smile. Kyungsoo grins back at him.

 

“I don’t invite people who I can’t eat on my couch with,” he replies, ushering Jongin inside. They plop down on the cushion just as Kyungsoo says, “If I feel the need to have a meal with you on a dining table then we’re not close enough—which means you can’t visit my home.”

 

Jongin nods his head, turning to Kyungsoo so their eyes meet. The lights shift the dark chestnut of the younger man’s hair into something a little more red, like autumn caresses itself on his very person. He says softly, “I suppose that’s a good way to define interpersonal relationships.”

 

Kyungsoo grins and he contorts himself so his back hits the arm rest. His legs extend towards Jongin and he feels hands grip his ankles, feet propped on top of Jongin’s thighs. Warm hands cup the balls of his feet, pulling his cotton socks low, and rubbing the soft skin. Jongin teasingly pokes the hole near Kyungsoo’s big toe, index finger slipping inside and scratching.

 

“No!” Kyungsoo yelps, flails around. He almost kicks Jongin in the face but the taller male is quick to catch his left foot. He almost loses his balance, tipping towards the ground, but three of Jongin’s fingers slot and hook on one of his belt hoops to keep him securely on the couch.

 

“I’m ticklish,” he grumbles. Jongin chuckles and his hands go upwards. The pads of his fingers are strong from they way they push on the muscles of Kyungsoo’s calves, over the material of his jeans.

 

“I know,” Jongin smirks, continuing his ministrations on Kyungsoo’s lower legs, “that’s why.”

 

“You’re such an asshole, Jongin. I swear.”

 

Jongin lets go of Kyungsoo’s feet and he shuffles closer before bending sideways. Kyungsoo huffs and groans when Jongin starts pushing and pulling him this way and that before he feels the weight of the taller man’s head settle on top of his belly.

 

“This can’t be comfortable,” Kyungsoo says dryly. His legs are sprawled on top of Jongin’s upper legs but the younger male is bent sideways, back on the couch. His right are is resting somewhere and his left arm is loosely hanging from where it is perched on Kyungsoo’s torso.

 

“Your belly is comfortable,” Jongin says. Goosebumps rise on Kyungsoo’s skin underneath his shirt when Jongin’s warm breath seeps through the fabric, nuzzling on the soft material. “You're squishy.”

 

“I’m not a pillow,” Kyungsoo complains. His hand is pressed close to his chest and his other one is combing Jongin’s thick hair. His fingers catch a know and he cradles the other man’s head as he takes his time to untangle. Jongin hums Tchaikovsky under his breath.

 

“I didn’t realize you also liked Tchaikovsky,” Kyungsoo says. Both his hands are on Jongin’s hair and his legs are feeling numb. The younger professor chuckles slightly and the movement makes the loose flesh on his stomach bounce. The action makes Jongin laugh a little more, breathless as he wiggles his head over the softness of Kyungsoo’s tummy.

 

Jongin’s right arm folds inwards, at the elbow, and his hand rests on the couch, half beneath Kyungsoo’s heated back, close to his tailbone. He mumbles an answer, “I don’t. But you always hum this under your breath. And I recognize it.”

 

Kyungsoo pulls softly on Jongin’s hair, twirls the ends on his index and middle finger before letting go and repeating the patter once again. He says, in lieu of an answer to an absent question that hangs between the small spaces in between their bodies, “It’s from _The Nutcracker_. Many know it by sound but they rarely know that it’s by Tchaikovsky.”

 

“Ah,” Jongin’s voice sounds a little dead and Kyungsoo’s hands stop what the slow work they are doing through the other man’s brunette locks. “Sugar plum fairy?”

 

“Yes,” Kyungsoo says and then, asks, “are you okay?”

 

“Of course.” There is a tremble in Jongin’s words and Kyungsoo feels it from the way the hot breath stutters against the skin and the way the other man seemingly curls into himself without moving. Kyungsoo tugs on Jongin’s hair, one hand trailing on Jongin’s ear that is not pressed against him. And then, the man corrects in a quiet thing that is a little louder than the whisper of a ghost, “No. Not really.”

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No," Jongin huffs. The square of his chin digs on Kyungsoo’s flesh and he knows it is as good as a conversation ender as any. The other man will tell him when he wants to and Kyungsoo is not the type to throw a temper tantrum to pry details from another person’s life.

 

The ticking of the analog clock resounds throughout the room like loud bass in expensive clubs with amazing sound systems. It feels like a metronome, and Kyungsoo tunes his breathing with the seconds passing by. Jongin’s back rises and falls. He hums something different—not Russian—and he feels Jongin’s lips stretch when the familiar chorus of a song sung by a recently ubiquitous Korean idol group breaks out from the middle note of the second verse in to a rising melody.

 

Jongin’s hand underneath his body creeps deeper until it disappears—from the wrist down to the tips of his long fingers. It wiggles in between the couch and Kyungsoo’s small back and he finds it in himself to smile, asking, “Warm?”

 

The taller man grunts and Kyungsoo takes that as a reply. He continues what he is doing on Jongin’s hair and he trains his gaze to his ceiling, slightly averting them so the light doesn’t pour into his eyes directly. He senses Jongin’s jaw tightening, clenching and unclenching, and he tries to contain the slight protest on his tongue when the man’s chin digs a little harder. His shoulder tenses and Jongin stops whatever it is that he is doing to the expressions on his features to rub the side of face to where he has accidentally jabbed Kyungsoo’s squashy flesh. The shorter of the two absentmindedly pats Jongin’s head twice to accept the silent apology. 

 

Kyungsoo stops his humming when Jongin speaks. He looks down to the top of the man’s head before he tears his eyes away and trains it on the attractive tattoos painted on Jongin’s skin. He makes out a small image of a pair of toe shoes, suspended on the canvas near the place where his elbow bends. 

 

Jawline moves against his stomach, the words form slow and sure, like gradually letting go the last inhale of smoke from a cigarette. Jongin says, “ _‘He was still too young to know that the heart’s memory eliminates the bad and magnifies the good, and that thanks to this artifice we manage to endure the burden of the past.’_ ”

 

“Love in the Time of Cholera. Gabriel Gracia Márquez,” he says, out of instinct. He and Jongin like to play games like this. A literary quotation hanging on the fragility of the air while the other tries to guess where it has come from. Kyungsoo draws soothing circles on the edge of Jongin’s neck, slipping past on the thin skin behind the other man’s ear. He answers, “ _‘There was no fear because there was no death. In place of death there was light.’_ ”

 

There is a minute pause before Jongin replies, “The Death of Ivan Ilyich. Tolstoy.”

 

Kyungsoo titters, “I thought you don’t like much of Russian literature.”

 

“It’s not like I don’t like it,” Jongin defends, “I read them but they're too long winded for me to ever remember anything except the general story. But you love your Russian authors so much.” 

 

Kyungsoo nods and Jongin risks having a crick on his neck when he turns up to look at him. There is a small smile playing on his lips but Kyungsoo cannot help but see sadness and resignation within the cracks of masked vulnerability. Jongin adds, “ _‘To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.’_ ”

 

“I knew you’d be the type. Friedrich Nietzsche,” Kyungsoo snorts fondly. He weighs between a Lenin and, maybe to throw Jongin off, something Greek but the beginnings of a story form inside his mind. A young boy, almost a man, tumbling over and losing himself before he has even reached adulthood. “Did you lose something important? Something that is part of yourself?”

 

Kyungsoo knows that suffering is to live and to move on with the permanent absence of what has been lost.

 

He hears the sharp intake of breath, like a whizzing bullet, before the man resting on his stomach releases a sigh, explosive in its length. Simply, Jongin answers, “Yes.”

 

Kyungsoo eyes the toe shoes tattooed on Jongin’s skin and he wonders if the other man is still too young to know about the heart and how it can take the bad away.

 

 

[]

 

 

Kyungsoo teaches the nuances of translated literature to a class of thirty-three undergrads in fall. In the middle of the semester, time runs away as he chases the remnants of summer with English words on his tongue and Slavic prose shallow in the recesses of his mind. Sometimes, Russian spills out of his mouth and his hand writes in the wrong alphabet—Cyrillic replacing the English that looks alike. His Russian cursive is as horrible as any other.

 

He does not pace when he talks in his lectures but he wrings his hands and throw them up in small gestures. Kyungsoo discusses the differences of translations and the secondary identity they lend to the text, distinctive of the author and the translator himself—an intermarriage of cultures and context. Dostoyevsky is not Tolstoy even with the same person turning their words from Russian to English.

 

Jongin sits in on his class, at the back, with an interested smile playing on his lips. In his casual jacket and jeans, he looks like any other student—maybe a little order, like a fifth year senior or a grad student auditing an undergrad course out of interest. Kyungsoo’s eyes stray on the man and every time, he finds Jongin looking at him. Gaze attentive and a pen being capped and uncapped repeatedly in between his thumb and index finger, it feels like spring again but this time, Kyungsoo is the one standing in front and talking about literature and he is not as clueless as Jongin about the people attending his class. There’s a steady tick-tack on the back of his head like he hears the rhythm of the cap of Jongin’s ballpoint pen, not the Parker one, being tugged loose and replaced.

 

The class draws to a close quick enough and Kyungsoo waves his students goodbye with a set of readings and a short paper. He hears a few of them muttering curses and he smiles out of instinct. Jongin makes his way to the podium and he watches as long legs stride over, weaving through the slow teem of undergraduates. Kyungsoo spies someone shoot them a look before they whisper among their group, finger pointing in what they must have thought of as subtle.

 

“There are rumors about us,” Kyungsoo says, apropos of none. Jongin goes around him, hands fitting on his stomach and dragging across his belly, all the way to the small of his back before letting go. Like a hug in motion. The younger man places Kyungsoo’s laptop inside its sleeves. Kyungsoo leans on the side of the table, wiggling upwards so he’s half-way into sitting on the heavy wood, as he turns and watches Jongin pack his minimal things inside his frost green Fjällräven backpack. Jongin shakes it a little before zipping it close and sliding the straps on Kyungsoo’s arms.

 

Dryly, the older man continues, hopping down so his leather shoes are flat on the ground, “This is precisely why there are rumors about the two of us.”

 

Jongin falls into step with him. The backs of their hands brush. Kyungsoo looks up just as Jongin looks down.

 

“Rumors about us what?”

 

“Dating,” Kyungsoo shrugs. They navigate across the horde of students filling up the hallways. He places his hand on Jongin’s back, pushing him away from a teenager shuffling carelessly with a rubber ball. 

 

“There are rumors about us dating?” Jongin asks, incredulous. Kyungsoo shoots him an unimpressed look and the man grins, sheepish, as he rubs the lobe of his ear with his left hand.

 

“Where have you been, Jongin?” Kyungsoo hooks both his hands on each strap of his bag. “There are rumors about us being boyfriends. Fucking. Whatever works.”

 

Jongin seems to recoil at that and Kyungsoo scowls at him. “Is it so bad that they’re gossiping about you dating me?”

 

“Uh—” the younger male stutters. His fingers keep the nervous gesture, stopping for a moment and then picking up again. “—where did that even come from?”

 

Nonchalant, he says, “Just this summer term. One of your classes were talking about it and it led to my classes and somehow it blew over.”

 

“Really?” Jongin looks down at him and something in his eyes burn the skin on Kyungsoo’s cheeks and the sides of his neck. He breathes out, “Yes. Really,” before he bites his bottom lip, chewing on it for a minute before releasing the flesh in between his teeth.

 

Jongin beams at him and Kyungsoo turns his head away, looking forward. He feels warmth assault his side and a heavy arm is slung on his shoulders, pulling him close. Jongin’s left foot moves when Kyungsoo’s does too. 

 

In the courtyard, when they make their way outside the university after picking up the papers from the Literature Department, Jongin lets go of Kyungsoo’s shoulders, stepping away. Kyungsoo pursues the lost heat and he sidles just a little closer.

 

“Do you want to come over tonight?” Jongin asks. He is fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag.

 

“Sure,” Kyungsoo answers without hesitation. “I want to get drunk.”

 

Like a wolf, Jongin grins, all teeth and big. With a bright twinkle on his eyes, playful, he says, “Leave it to me.”

 

 

_{ i do not understand how you can place your mouth on mine_

_and yet i cannot breathe_

_i do not understand how your hands can be so warm_

_and yet i am shivering }_

 

 

Kyungsoo mutters a low, “Excuse me,” when Jongin ushers him inside his apartment. The younger man fumbles for something on the wall before he hears a distinct click and the light floods through the space. Removing his shoes, Kyungsoo eyes the place with barely concealed excitement.

 

“It’s everything I imagined your apartment to be,” he says. The place looks straight out of the pages of home magazines, chic and minimalist. Clean. “Different.”

 

Jongin takes his coat off and Kyungsoo hands his to the other man. He hangs it inside the small closet beside the doorway and his black parka stands out beside Jongin’s trench coat, camel colored and very French.

 

The younger man throws him a questioning glance and Kyungsoo lifts his right shoulder, walking to where the navy couch is. He folds his legs together, the heels near his crotch. He explains, “For someone who makes a living by spinning words into art, you’re home is straightforward.”

 

He sees Jongin grin, asks, “Did you expect it to be cluttered?” The man makes his way to his kitchen and Kyungsoo hears the tinkling of several glasses.

 

“Yes,” he answers. “I expected something—heavier? I don’t see any books littering the floor at random.” Most are shelved neatly a few feet away from the office area pushed on the wall near the entryway, and there are four hard bound books beside the couch, placed on top of each other on a round stool. It’s very Scandinavian of Jongin, Kyungsoo thinks.

 

“I like the open space,” Jongin says. He sits down beside Kyungsoo, elbow is on the back of the couch and his head is resting on his closed fist, facing the shorter. He places the drink on the lacquered floor—a full bottle of rum, the cap already loose, four cans of diet Coke, and two coffee mugs, one in bright yellow and another in mint green. “Most of my books are in my office in the university. Besides, I also buy an electronic copy.”

 

Kyungsoo crinkles his nose. “You read them on your phone?”

 

“Or on my laptop,” Jongin shrugs. “It’s the 21st century.”

 

“Agree to disagree,” Kyungsoo grunts. He reaches for one of the mugs, mint green, and plucks the soda can first. He pulls the tab open and the hissing of the carbonated drink is a loud sigh disrupting the silence. He pours half on the mug and sips.

 

“You’re supposed to mix it with the rum,” Jongin chuckles, slowly prying the can from Kyungsoo’s hold. The pads of Jongin’s fingers are warm on his skin. 

 

“We haven’t had dinner yet,” he retorts. 

 

Jongin hums before standing up, going to the kitchen again. Kyungsoo kneels on the couch, the handle of the mug hooked loosely on three fingers. The younger man rifles through his refrigerator and Kyungsoo smiles when he makes a triumphant noise.

 

“Reheated pizza?” Jongin offers, raising a plate with three large slices. There are pineapple chunks on top.

 

“You like Hawaiian pizza?” Kyungsoo titters. The other man throws the plate inside the microwave, sets the timer, before he gives him a stare.

 

“Fruit can be a pizza topping,” he defends. Jongin leans on the counter, crossing his arms on his chest. The muscles on his upper arm contracts, flexing against the soft-looking fabric of the man’s shirt.

 

Kyungsoo grins, breathes out, “I agree.”

 

Jongin breaks out in a large smile and Kyungsoo watches, more than the stretch of Jongin’s thick lips, the way his eyes form into curved slits, narrow, with the edges curling just a little upwards. With a huff, he jokes, “That’s good then. I would hate to throw you out.”

 

Kyungsoo feels the telltale warmth on his belly, rising upwards towards his chest before bubbling into loud laughter. He throws his head back and he almost loses his balance, tipping to the floor and nearly falling, before he clutches the backrest with both his heads.

 

“Careful,” Jongin reminds with a small smile. The microwave pings and Jongin pulls the plate out with his bare hands. 

 

“Fuck!” He curses and Kyungsoo laughs again when Jongin blows air on his fingers. The taller man growls, “Don’t laugh at me.”

 

Kyungsoo smirks, a tiny impish thing, and, imitating Jongin’s tone from before, says, “Careful.”

 

Jongin sticks his tongue out and he rips several squares of paper towels, folding them together and using them to hold the plate. He sprints towards Kyungsoo before dropping their food on the floor carelessly. He divides the tissue squares in between them, handing one to Kyungsoo, before pulling a round stool and putting the plate with the pizza on top of it.

 

“Where’s your coffee table?” Kyungsoo asks, leaning to blow air and cool the pizza a bit. The cheese oozes and dries on the plate.

 

“You don’t have a dining table,” Jongin grumbles, legs spread. Kyungsoo’s knees are touching Jongin’s thighs from he is sitting in a loose lotus.

 

“Tell me I’m lying—you have no coffee table because it doesn’t fit your interior decor,” the smaller man teases. He picks the bottle of rum and Jongin does the same for their coffee mugs. He fills both almost to the brim with the alcohol, taking the mint green one from Jongin’s hold after replacing the cap on the heavy bottle.

 

Jongin does not answer and Kyungsoo pokes his side with a puff of laughter. He grabs one of the pizza slices, the mug on the couch, and he takes a long drink after swallowing the food.

 

“Hawaiian pizza is the best,” he comments. The rum draws a sharp line on his throat but the diet cola soothes the burn with its unhealthy sugar. Jongin nods, finishing his pizza slice.

 

Kyungsoo finishes his mug first but Jongin consumes the leftover pizza faster. He pouts when the younger man dangles the last bite in front of him. He opens another can of soda and, this time, he only fills a fourth of his glass. Straight from the can, he gulps the Coke before setting it on the floor again and then pouring a large amount of rum in their poor excuse of a cocktail.

 

"Here you go,” Jongin coos before he pushes the piece of dough inside Kyungsoo’s mouth. His fingers touch Kyungsoo’s lips, wet with their rum cola. There is a high flush on the younger man’s cheeks, pink on the gold of his skin. Heat grows inside Kyungsoo’s stomach, down to his toes with a faint electric tingle.

 

Kyungsoo stirs the drink with his index finger and he pretends not to notice Jongin’s eyes on him when he sucks it inside his mouth, popping it with an audible sound. The room is too quiet.

 

“I’ll play some music,” Kyungsoo suggests. Jongin nods, finishes his mug, and then pours himself rum again. This time, he doesn’t add any diet soda. The older of the two fishes around for his phone and he taps the screen, clicking on the playlist labelled as _mood_. 

 

The beginning trills with a steady beat of the bass, low and slow, as a male singer’s voice inflects the english before dragging Korean lyrics out. Jongin knows it is from one of the country’s top boybands, a new release, even if he has only listened to the album once out of curiosity.

 

Kyungsoo clutches his mug of alcohol in both hands, taking sips that turn into large gulps. His eyes trail on Jongin’s profile, the strength of his jaw, the slight pink of his cheeks, the breadth of his shoulders. Kyungsoo feels his senses being overwhelmed by the other man. He shivers.

 

“Are you cold?” Jongin asks. His knuckles are white from how hard he is gripping his glass. Kyungsoo shakes his head, drinks the remaining liquid inside his mug before setting it on the floor. The younger man does the same but he picks the bottle of rum. The neck is hanging loosely in between the circle of his fingers. Kyungsoo’s mouth feels dry.

 

He undoes himself from his sitting position and Jongin’s hands are warm over his jeans when he tugs his knees closer. Kyungsoo finds his legs sprawled on top of Jongin’s lap again. The alcohol works in his system and he shuffles near the other man. He presses his body, tucking himself on Jongin’s side. He feels the younger man’s arm come up, going around his shoulders, hugging him. Kyungsoo smells Jongin’s perfume—woody and musky, like something a rainforest would be, with the undertones of dried down fruits. Maybe berries.

 

Kyungsoo noses along the exposed curve of Jongin’s jugular. The younger man takes a swig of the rum, straight from the bottle and almost finishing the entire thing. He tips his head back and Kyungsoo blows hot breath, feeling a shiver underneath his fingertips. He reaches one of his hands blindly, taking the rum away, before detaching himself slightly from Jongin.

 

He finishes the alcohol and he carelessly tips it on the floor. The bottle falls sideways, the sound deafening, but it doesn’t break. The air is thick and hot and Kyungsoo’s hands curls on the hem of Jongin’s maroon henley. The fabric is as soft as he imagines it to be and he notices how it hugs every curvature of Jongin’s torso before it disappears into his jeans.

 

“Is this okay?” Kyungsoo asks. He pushes himself up and he slings one of his legs on the other side. He kneels in front of Jongin, straddling the younger man.

 

“Very,” Jongin barely gets out, red in the face down to his neck. Large hands press flat on Kyungsoo’s stomach before they move opposite ways, converging behind Kyungsoo and dropping low on his ass.

 

“Okay,” Kyungsoo smiles and he rests his hands on Jongin’s shoulders. His fingers play with the neckline of the man’s shirt and he lets the soft pads make contact with the heated skin, leaving feather kisses that tickle. He dips his head and he captures Jongin’s mouth in a kiss.

 

It begins slow, languid. The two of them taste the same—tangy with the tomato and sweet with the pineapple, a little salty, before being overpowered by the bitter taste of rum and the little hints of diet Coke. Kyungsoo moves his lips, grazes his teeth on Jongin’s, flicks his tongue against the other man’s. Jongin obediently opens his mouth and the grip on Kyungsoo’s ass tightens. He sticks his tongue inside the warm confines of Jongin’s mouth.

 

Kyungsoo explores Jongin with his tongue, tasting the younger male, from the sides to the back of his teeth, the two of them almost clashing. He breaks the kiss but Jongin’s eyes are glazed over when he surges again, running after Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo feels hot mouth latching on his neck and he links his hands on Jongin’s nape. The taller male deepens sucks hard and Kyungsoo keens. Jongin’s hands move up to hold his back and his knees tremble when Jongin bites on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, hard.

 

The moan that escapes between his lips is absolutely filthy and he grapples for purchase on Jongin’s hair. The other man has him tipped almost downwards, towards the floor. The back of his thighs are pressed on his calves and he’s ass is planted square on Jongin’s lap. The man’s hands are soft and light, dancing on the cotton of the shirt on his back.

 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time now,” Jongin mumbles, punctuating his every word with an openmouthed kiss. The heat of the other man’s lips move from Kyungsoo’s collarbone up his sharp jawline to the back of his ear where a lone mole sits.

 

Kyungsoo moans again, loud and clear, when Jongin’s mouth scrapes a perky nipple, the sensitive nub chafing on the material of his shirt. He loses his balance and his legs are clumsy and before he knows what’s happening he’s free falling to the floor, barely missing their used mugs and the empty bottle of rum.

 

“Oh my g—” Jongin yelps as Kyungsoo drags them both to the floor. Kyungsoo feels a shooting pain up his back and a heavy weight pressed on his front.

 

“Are you okay?” the younger man asks, pulling his left hand from Kyungsoo’s back and his right from where it has quickly moved to cradle Kyungsoo’s head. Their limbs are tangled on the floor.

 

Kyungsoo laughs out loud, hiccuping, “Did I kill you or your boner?”

 

Jongin grins, “You didn’t,” before he slumps down, rolling away from Kyungsoo. He stands and Kyungsoo lets himself be pulled upright. Jongin’s hands are strong when he grips Kyungsoo’s waist. The man pulls him closer and their fronts are flushed against each other. Jongin bends down and kisses Kyungsoo on the mouth, hungry and impatient. Kyungsoo raises his hands, holds Jongin’s face, before he goes up on his toes as if he can go any deeper, tongue probing and licking the inside of Jongin’s mouth.

 

The two of them fumble, Jongin leading blind, to the direction of what Kyungsoo assumes to be the bedroom. He falls first on the mattress and he grins when Jongin pulls the henley off of himself.

 

“We’re wearing too much clothes,” he says. With hooded eyes, Kyungsoo does not break his stare. He grips the hem of his shirt, removing it cleanly off. Jongin crawls on the bad and Kyungsoo is half sitting, propped on the soft pillows with his torso bare. He reaches for the stretch of gold in front of him and his hands feel the fire brimming underneath Jongin’s skin with every touch that is a kiss of what is about to come. The muscles on the younger man’s stomach ripples and Kyungsoo runs his fingers on the ridges. Jongin subconsciously contracts his abdominals, sucking air with a hiss, before he grabs Kyungsoo’s wandering hands, pressing them on the mattress.

 

Jongin’s mouth is hot on Kyungsoo’s chest and they suck and lick pale skin, leaving red and pink that will turn into blotchy purple. Kyungsoo’s toes curl when Jongin’s lips suck on the area on his left hip, where his legs connect to his body, just inches away from where his hip would stick out at some angles. The front of his pants turn tighter and his legs are twitching with how hot he is feeling, skin blazing from the outside seeping through under.

 

The younger man’s hands are shaking when he unbuttons Kyungsoo’s jeans but they are methodical when he shucks them off of the older male. Goosebumps rise on Kyungsoo’s skin when Jongin licks his lips, pupils blown to almost black, before two fingers hook on the band of his underwear, pulling his half hard cock out.

 

“Jongin,” he pants. “Fuck me, please.”

 

The man’s eyes widen considerably and he takes a sharp intake of air. Wordlessly, he reaches for the bedside table, rooting around and finding a bottle of lube. Kyungsoo eyes the pink letters and the illustration of a strawberry on the label with mirth.

 

“Shit,” Jongin slams the drawer shut. “I have no condoms.”

 

Kyungsoo raises his eyebrows, “You have no condoms?”

 

“Yeah." Jongin answers grimly. “I got nothing.”

 

Kyungsoo whines and he bucks his hips on the fabric of Jongin’s jeans. The younger man holds him down, a hand clamped on one of his thighs, kneading the flesh. Like a flash of inspiration, he licks his lips, says, “You can fuck my thighs if you want.”

 

The younger man almost chokes and Kyungsoo smirks at him. With a challenging stare, he asks, voice deep and sultry, the most seductive he can be with intention, “Do you want to fuck my thighs, Jongin?”

 

Jongin gives a shaky nod and the room feels ten degrees warmer. Sweat beads on their forehead and the heat crackling between them makes it feel like a hellish summer in the middle of autumn. Kyungsoo’s insides are coiling into themselves and Jongin's hair are in disarray.

 

“On your knees, Kyungsoo,” he orders. Jongin’s voice is raspy like he has just finished a long day filled with lectures after lectures. 

 

Kyungsoo kneels on the bed before, ever so slowly, he rests his forearms flat on the bed. He curves his back in what he hopes to be enticing and ass high up in the air. Jongin gives one cheek a light slap and he moans at the slight sting. Jongin chuckles, says, “Look at your ass move, Kyungsoo.”

 

He feels Jongin’s weight on his behind and the man’s torso bows against his. Lips latched on the top of his spine before moving down, dragging and biting, catching thin skin in between teeth. Jongin’s hand moves around and he grips Kyungsoo’s dick, stroking lazily. Kyungsoo jerks his hips backwards and the younger man’s free hand holds him in place.

 

The hand on his hard member strokes him up and down, thumbing the slit and spreading pre-cum. Kyungsoo moans when Jongin’s nails graze the underside but the skin of his palm is soft. Jongin’s fingers tighten around the head and he feels Jongin chuckling behind him lowly. 

 

“Don’t tease,” Kyungsoo whines. Jongin thrusts his clothed hard on in between his ass cheeks. The cotton rubs his puckered hole and he whimpers high. His arms are trembling. Jongin’s jeans chafe the skin on the back of his thighs.

 

Jongin gives his dick a few more tugs and Kyungsoo cries out when the other man’s hand lets go of his member. Reaching for the lube, he hears the cap being popped open and Jongin moving away. He turns his head around and he sees the younger man spilling the thick liquid on himself. Kyungsoo licks himself at Jongin’s size, thick and curving upwards a little. His hand wraps around his hard member, loose as he spreads the lube. The air smells cloyingly sweet with the scent of artificial strawberries.

 

Kyungsoo shivers when Jongin lets the liquid gush on the back of his thighs and in between. The cold on his skin does nothing to alleviate the itch underneath and the tendrils of hell on the pit of his stomach.

 

Jongin kneads his ass with both of his hands, sticky and wet, before they trail down Kyungsoo’s fleshy thighs. The taller male whispers hotly, “Keep your thighs together for me, ‘Soo.”

 

Kyungsoo nods and he trains his gaze forward. His arms almost give away when Jongin, gripping him on the hips, pushes the head of his cock in between Kyungsoo’s thighs. The two of them releases a string of curse and Kyungsoo hears Jongin whine low when he continues to slip his cock in between the thick flesh.

 

“Your thighs are so amazing,” Jongin pants and he pulls out before pushing in again. “Distracting as fuck.”

 

Kyungsoo bites his lip hard when Jongin starts moving fast, erratic. His cock slides in between Kyungsoo’s thighs and the lube turns warm from where their skin has met each other. Jongin’s balls hit the the backs of his thighs and they burn with every drag of Jongin’s jeans against them. The rough material scratches the soft skin and he moans, “Touch me, Jongin. Please, touch me.”

 

Jongin grunts and his handsreach around Kyungsoo’s erection. He continues to pump in between the older man’s thighs and Kyungsoo clenches them tighter, causing Jongin to release intelligible words and to tug harder on his member.

 

Without warning, Jongin flicks his finger on the slit of Kyungsoo’s head and he feels himself let go with a choked off scream. His thighs shake and he presses them together just as Jongin also comes with a murmur of his name. White streaks the bedsheets and their skin and Kyungsoo feels Jongin go lax behind him before his orgasm and the alcohol take their toll.

 

 

[]

 

 

Kyungsoo wakes up with a mouth feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton. His back stings with an ache and he reaches to feel the tenderness of bruising. He groans and sits up on the bare bed, not surprised to find himself in boxers he does not own. Jongin is nowhere inside his own bedroom.

 

In the daylight, the sun hugs the room from where it escapes inside. Light illuminates the white of the room, broken by the wooden panes of the large window on one of the walls. Across the foot of the bed, there are photographs taped on the wall, frameless—a hot air balloon against the clear backdrop of the blue skies, a lone white poodle stark against three others in the shade of milk chocolate, a pair of black toe shoes on the beige floor of what he assumes to be a dance floor. It’s careless and casual, everything Jongin is. Kyungsoo stretches and yawns before padding to where he remembers the kitchen to be located.

 

He sees Jongin standing in front of the stove and he licks his lips when the muscles on his back move under his skin with every motion. He calls out, “Good morning, Jongin,” as he rounds the island.

 

“I’m making breakfast,” the younger man says. His boxers are plaid. “Give me fifteen.”

 

“You’re a fire hazard,” he comments, pointing at Jongin’s lack of shirt. The younger man shrugs with a small smile.

 

“I’ll live,” he retorts. Kyungsoo nods absentmindedly and Jongin pecks his lips. His lips are warm against Kyungsoo’s chapped ones. They haven’t brushed their teeth. He wrinkles his face before he sits on the floor beside Jongin’s feet.

 

“Kyungsoo,” the man laughs. “I have chairs.”

 

Kyungsoo shakes his head and he drags himself closer. He wraps his arms around Jongin’s leg, leaning against the toned limb. His cheeks are pressed on a strong thigh as his breathing steadies itself.

 

Jongin clicks his tongue but he makes no effort to shake Kyungsoo off. When he has to move, he either drags Kyungsoo with him or he pulls lightly on his hair, telling him to let go for a bit. Once Jongin is back, the older man just latches himself on Jongin’s leg again.

 

His lips are roaming free on the exposed skin, nothing heated, something relaxed, like it’s a habit that Kyungsoo has been doing for a long time and not for the very first. His mouth snags on a jagged line and he opens his eyes to peek. Kyungsoo does not feel Jongin stiffen up but he stops breathing when he sees an assortment of scars on Jongin’s legs. Last night, the younger male has kept his jeans and has made him go on his hands and knees.

 

His chest clenches with an unknown emotion—not pity, no—and Jongin’s _yes_ rings clear inside his head after he has asked if the man has lost an important part of himself. The tattoos on Jongin’s skin are saturated in color when the light from outside hits them. Shadows thrown over the illustrations make them seem like moving artwork. He closes his eyes again, lips moving away from the uneven skin.

 

“Are you done?” he asks. “I’m hungry.”

 

“Almost,” Jongin answers. Kyungsoo’s eyes are closed when he feels a soft morsel of the pancake being offered to him. He opens his mouth and Jongin pushes the piece inside. Playfully, he bites the younger man’s index finger in between his teeth. 

 

“Good?” He hears the telltale rumble of Jongin’s voice.

 

“Yeah,” he sighs contentedly. He hears the stove being turned off and Kyungsoo looks up just as Jongin looks down. There is a smile playing on the younger man’s lips. The early morning sunlight passes through the window on their left and Jongin’s irises are the color of muted brown, like honey, almost gold. His skin glimmers and there is a healthy pink on the apples of his cheeks. Kyungsoo smiles involuntarily and comfort settles in the hollow of his bones not unlike the empty bottle of rum from last night. 

 

“Are you fine with strawberry syrup?” Jongin asks after a weighted beat. Kyungsoo nods and he sees Jongin swirl the condiment on the plate. The younger man moves aways slightly before he, too, sits on the floor facing Kyungsoo. The plate of pancakes are in between them.

 

Kyungsoo grabs one of the forks and he moves the butter around the warm treat before spearing a slice for himself. He soaks the syrup with his portion before he stuffs it inside his mouth. There is an indulgent smile on Jongin’s face.

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks after he has swallowed the food.

 

Jongin’s face stretches with the length of his smile and he moves closer to Kyungsoo, legs invading each other’s space and the diameter of the plate is almost the only distance separating them. With a grin, the younger male says softly, “You have dried drool on your face.”

 

Kyungsoo feels his face warming and he scowls, stabbing the pancake viciously and ripping a piece. Before he takes it in his mouth, he grumbles, “I don’t sleep perfect. Sorry.”

 

Jongin laughs even if Kyungsoo has not said anything worth laughing over. He cuts himself a part of the pancake and Kyungsoo watches as pure joy crosses Jongin’s face, child-like and innocent.

 

Unable to help himself, Kyungsoo comments, “You really like strawberries, don’t you, Jongin?”

 

The younger male blushes and Kyungsoo titters when Jongin looks down and mumbles something he cannot catch. He wants to make the other man repeat what he has said but the air is light and warm despite it being autumn. Jongin’s tattoos blink at Kyungsoo and he helps himself to touch. The other man does not flinch, instead leaning closer and putting their breakfast on the floor, pushing it away just a bit.

 

Jongin kisses him and the burst of butter and strawberry and sugar tastes pleasant on his tongue. The pancakes are more delicious when he is eating the flavors off of Jongin’s mouth. Jongin’s hands are resting on his tailbone and Kyungsoo’s are running lazy, up and down on Jongin’s sides. A shiver goes down on Kyungsoo’s spine, goosebumps rising, before Jongin’s palms press flat on his back. The surface of them are warm and Jongin’s fingers drum a beat that Kyungsoo cannot recognize.

 

When he breaks the kiss, Kyungsoo leans his forehead on Jongin’s chest, spine bent. He asks, “Jongin, what are we doing?”

 

He feels a huff of breath on his hair and the younger man’s chin rests on his head. There is a mumble and Kyungsoo sighs when he makes out a, “I don’t know,” from the other male. He presses himself closer, legs folded close to his knees, and Jongin arranges them both so he’s sitting on top of one of Jongin’s laps. His legs are sprawled sideways and his face is tucked towards the warmth radiating from Jongin’s neck. The taller male’s pulse is a distinct music echoing in Kyungsoo’s insides and something stutters when his lips move ungainly on warm, tanned skin.

 

After a moment, he feels Jongin’s chest quake again, asking, “How about Oh Sehun?”

 

Kyungsoo hums on Jongin’s skin a music Tchaikovsky, hoping Jongin will not hate one of his favorites because he is playing it against the soft skin near his chiseled jawline. He answers, “Sehun and I are friends. We’ve had some fun but it’s nothing more.”

 

“You don’t love him?” Jongin's hands tighten from where he is holding him. Kyungsoo’s fingers slip underneath Jongin’s boxers to explore more skin. He leaves phantom touches on the smooth skin and Jongin’s breathing is a little wilder, like Kyungsoo has taken him apart, like he has made him crumble with the lightest of touches.

 

“Sehun is in love with someone else,” Kyungsoo answers. He remembers the younger lecturer firmly telling him about his unrequited love, about loving a man who has a beautiful partner, a female partner. Kyungsoo may not understand but he has let Sehun become a passing fancy, has let himself become the man’s medicine.

 

“And you?” Jongin adds. His heat thunders inside his chest, thudding against where Kyungsoo has pressed and burrowed himself deeper, painting himself over the memories that are Kim Jongin’s like a virtuoso. He remembers Jongin telling him he sometimes like a Da Vinci artwork, and he finds his lips curling up, wondering if, right now, he looks like he belongs within the four corners of gilded frames and inside the marble halls of museums scarring the courtyard of old Paris with its glass pyramid.

 

He answers, “No.”

 

Kyungsoo makes his fingers play on top of Jongin’s skin and he adds, “I don’t think I will ever be. I don’t really know how.”

 

Jongin does not pull away; instead, he cradles Kyungsoo close, almost singing when he requests, “Whatever do you mean by that?”

 

The smaller male rubs his toes together, warming them up even if they are not cold. He tries to recreate the comforting gesture of his feet being caressed tenderly. Kyungsoo sighs, warm breath on Jongin’s neck like a constant. His lips are pressed softly on the skin and when he speaks up, his mouth moves like he is kissing Jongin sweetly, gently. He admits, “I don’t really know myself. But for as long as I remember, I’ve never felt any romantic attraction towards anyone. Maybe at some point, once or twice. On the edge of something closer to that.”

 

Jongin leans in to the sensation of Kyungsoo’s lips and the younger man smells like their breakfast and the scraps of his perfume from yesterday and the sweat and musk of sex from last night to a little over past midnight.

 

“Well,” Jongin says, “Romance is not for you, then?”

 

Kyungsoo nods, says, “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never stayed long enough to form connections that will make me feel that spark. Or the fireworks. The books always talk about them. You know, the butterflies in your stomach.”

 

Kyungsoo feels the man’s hands fiddle with his boxers, twisting them in between his hold and tracing the straight line flat on Kyungsoo’s skin, just as Jongin snorts, playful with a little something, derisiveness perhaps, defense, “You’re not Tatyana, you know. Or Eugene Onegin.”

 

Kyungsoo chuckles, “I know that,” and he pauses a bit before adding, “I always wonder how it feels to love someone that way.”

 

“What way?”

 

“Fast and hard—playful. The heat of eros with the unpredictability of ludus.” Kyungsoo feels Jongin smile on his hair, hears it on his voice.

 

“You’re the one who said that love is boring, steady.”

 

“Yes,” he says. “It does not mean I don’t wonder. Love is a mystery and all that.”

 

Jongin hums under his breath and Kyungsoo grins when it's a Tchaikovsky. He wonders if Jongin knows. The taller male says, “If love is a mystery then no one knows if they are in love, no? You just have to take that leap with the person.”

 

Jongin draws a circle on Kyungsoo’s skin and he asks, “What do you think of love, Kyungsoo?”

 

“I’m not sure,” he says, pauses. Kyungsoo bites his bottom lip. “Comfortable. All the fast heartbeats and sweaty hands do not sound that nice to me.”

 

Jongin laughs and Kyungsoo asks him, “How was it with Baekhyun?”

 

The taller man sways them both to an imaginary melody, answers, “Fun. The reason why people say that a relationship has gone cold is because, when you look at your person, you’re supposed to feel warm all over. You person should make you feel like it's always summer.”

 

Kyungsoo pretends like he understands. He keeps Jongin close and he wonders if this is the warmth the other man is talking about.

 

 

_{ we are the almost and the perhaps,_

_the jump in a story, the lapse._

_we are the if, the next life,_

_the hope, the no time. }_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kyungsoo is in the aromantic spec in the story. jongin is just jongin tbh.
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	3. like a little boy he told me a story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> contains smoking.
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> unbeta-ed.

_{ To lie beside another heartbeat and stay there_

_Until dawn breaks talking about the weather, kissing_

_Until their lips are swollen and }_

 

Jongin wakes up to an empty bed and the sunlight is warm against his bare skin, throwing lines all over with the way it seeps through the cracks of the blinds covering the large glass window. He rubs his eyes with his right hand, running it through his face and groaning. The sheets beside him are still warm and, when he looks down, there are reds and pinks blooming on his chest and abdomen.

 

He hears the quiet trills of piano music, fast and fun and reckless, and he grins. Jongin does not listen to that kind of music anymore, not _after,_ but there is one person in his life who obsessively likes them. He creeps quietly outside of his bedroom, making his way towards his kitchen. He sees the person who has spent the night beside him and he stuffs his mouth with one of his fists to muffle the laughter bubbling from his stomach upwards to his throat, spilling like the sunshine barely making his kitchen appliances glint.

 

Kyungsoo becomes a fast constant in Jongin’s apartment, in his bed, in his life. It’s a little inevitable, he thinks. The older man pushes himself within the hours of Jongin’s day, fits his heart-shaped smile in the empty spaces between the lines displayed on his silver wrist watch. Kyungsoo is not that small, he knows, but the other man has squeezed himself beside him, underneath his navy blue bed sheets, multiple times.

 

Jongin supposes it’s his fault for welcoming the other willingly.

 

He watches the man first, quietly, as he stands there cutting slices of fruits. There is one large bowl of something that he’s too far out to see and his jar of granola beside. Jongin tip toes silently and Kyungsoo is none the wiser, swinging his hips and humming.

 

Jongin barrels straight to the other man, gripping a soft waist shortly. Kyungsoo yelps and jumps, almost bumps the top of his head on Jongin’s nose.

 

“You surprised me! I’m holding a knife, you know?” He admonishes. Kyungsoo rams his forehead on Jongin’s chest but he quickly turns to cutting kiwis. Jongin sidles closer, pressing his front on Kyungsoo’s back. He rests his chin on one shoulder and peeks on the contents of the bowl.

 

“Greek yogurt?” He turns his head sideways and blows hot air on Kyungsoo’s skin, dragging the obvious rhetoric against the skin on the side of Kyungsoo’s neck with his chapped lips. A shiver racks through the older man.

 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, dumping the kiwis gracelessly on the bowl before starting to slice the strawberries. “Also, I’m feeling generous so we’ll just share one bowl.”

 

Jongin smiles, “One less thing to wash,” just as the older man gives a short puff of chuckle. He places little kisses on Kyungsoo’s neck, nothing erotic, just playful nibbles on the baby-soft skin. His hands run on the outside of the other man’s thick thighs, over the black sweatpants. He slips them underneath the loose green sweater Kyungsoo has borrowed and he rests his palms flat on the shorter man’s belly.

 

Kyungsoo squirms and Jongin feels the softness of the flesh contracting as the man sucks in a breath, keeping the inhale. The slice of the strawberry comes out a little wonky. Jongin tuts, says, “You can breathe. I like how warm your stomach is.”

 

The older man does, groans, “Why do you like my tummy so much?”

 

Jongin grins, rubbing the plush flesh and drumming his fingers lightly, enjoying the way it sinks and gives. He whispers against the other’s neck—this time, a little higher, on the jawline. “It sticks out a little.”

 

Kyungsoo gives a tiny laugh and he finishes the strawberries fast. He does not bother with the presentation as he carelessly scoops and drops them over the thick yogurt. He sprinkles a bunch of granola and slivered almonds of top. Jongin detaches himself and he takes away the dirty utensils and picks up two spoons.

 

“Thanks,” the older man says as Jongin hands him one. Kyungsoo grabs the bowl and the taller of the two smiles, crouching low and gripping below the swell of the other man’s ass. He lifts Kyungsoo up, places him on top of the counter.

 

The bowl of yogurt rests between them as Jongin steps between Kyungsoo’s legs. The music has shifted into something Korean, boy group Gregorian chanting that makes Jongin snicker and question Kyungsoo’s taste in music. He scoops a little bit of everything and he shovels the treat inside his mouth, humming.

 

“This is good,” he compliments. Jongin’s free hand rests on top of Kyungsoo’s thigh.

 

“I just mixed everything together,” the other man replies, dry. He takes a bite of their breakfast and Jongin feels warmth move from the minute dip of his waist down to his hip. Kyungsoo snaps the band of his pajama pants, smirking.

 

“No sex in the kitchen,” Jongin warns, leaning in to playfully nip on the round tip of Kyungsoo’s nose before kissing it lightly. Kyungsoo’s eyelashes flutter prettily against his fair skin.

 

“I didn’t say anything,” he answers. His voice is deep and raspy, purposefully sultry and seductive. Jongin’s eyes follow the way Kyungsoo’s teeth take a hold of his plush bottom lip. There’s a slight flush high on Kyungsoo’s chubby cheeks and his lips are stark with how red they are. Jongin gulps and he presses their mouth together, closed and soft, before Kyungsoo moves his lips, opening slightly like a gasp. Jongin takes that as his cue and it does not take long before it turns into something heated. The bowl digs high on his stomach and he almost drops his spoon.

 

Kyungsoo runs his mouth on Jongin’s lip and he dutifully opens his mouth, helplessly. A tongue probes inside, licking the back of his teeth and prodding his tongue. Their noses almost bump against each other before he feels Kyungsoo’s head angling to the side. He presses closer to deepen the kiss, hungry and fast like they are both out of time. He ignores the cold porcelain pressing just below his pectorals, pushing down on a bone with a small amount of pain. His free hand on top of Kyungsoo’s thigh tightens, gasping the plump flesh and squeezing it hard. 

 

The older man’s hand dances along the V of his hips and Jongin moans out loud. Kyungsoo breaks the kiss first, laughs, “No sex in the kitchen.”

 

The younger eyes the redness of the other’s lips and he makes a show of eating a large spoonful of yogurt, carefully scooping three slices of strawberries with almonds, retorting, “I didn’t say anything.”

 

Jongin watches as Kyungsoo also takes a bite, pushing the spoon all the way inside. His lips part wide and his teeth scrape the metal utensil before it disappears. Slowly, Kyungsoo pulls it out and it drags on his lips, mouth curling half way into a smirk. The red of his mouth and the stray white of the thick Greek yogurt make him gulp. He leans in again, uncontrollable, pressing a kiss on Kyungsoo’s lips and licking the remnants of their breakfast.

 

The parfait tastes sweeter on Kyungsoo’s tongue.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kyungsoo’s studio apartment is cramped with books and magazines, printed papers stapled together, loose leaf littering everywhere. Outside, the lights from the surrounding establishments illuminate the surface of the apartment slightly, throwing neon colors on the wood and the walls.

 

Jongin almost slides on his woolen socks when he steps on a ballpoint pen in the dark. The elder just laughs at him, taking Jongin’s jacket off and hanging it on the hooks near the entryway before turning the lights on. His socks are thick and cream in color. The middle of the fall semester is always a hustle—students clamoring to ask for extra points for their midterm exams, projects and papers to check. The stress takes its toll on Jongin’s back and his posture is even worse than before. His legs feel like they are ready to give up any moment and he collapses on top of Kyungsoo’s bed.

 

“Make yourself at home,” the elder says belatedly. Jongin grins back and shoots the other man a V-sign. Kyungsoo shakes his head before he takes his trousers off. His boxer shorts are red and Jongin snickers, calls out, “Are you looking to get lucky tonight?”

 

The shorter man scoffs, folding his pants length-wise and then cross, two times. He jokes, “I’m always going to get lucky with you.”

 

Jongin tips his head back with laughter and teasingly, his fingers trail from his chest down to his abs. He slips two in between the bands of his jeans before he pops the metal button clean off of the hole with two nimble fingers. He sees Kyungsoo gasp more than he hears the sharp intake of air and he smirks, maintaining eye contact when he pulls his fly down.

 

“You’re such an asshole,” Kyungsoo breathes out, turning back. Jongin giggles at the flushed color on the man’s cheeks that, surely, is not from the cold. The apartment is nicely warm from the low hum of the heater.

 

“I’m kidding,” he says and then, not being able to resist, adds, “Though I’m not opposed to the idea of getting lucky tonight.”

 

Jongin hears another huff and a groan of, “I’m too tired today,” before props himself on the pillows, eyes running on Kyungsoo’s legs, enjoying the milky thighs. The older man grips the hem of his shirt and Jongin holds his breath when he sees the peek of skin on the other’s back gradually and then all at once. Kyungsoo’s back is pale and smooth and, from here, he sees the numerous moles decorating the canvas like dark constellations without any meaning or pattern. His hands twitch at the sight of the faint love handles and the way the man’s back is a valley from the delicate manner his spine protrudes at the top before curving in a dip as it goes down and then swelling again at Kyungsoo’s ass.

 

The elder puts on a gray hoodie and turns, eyebrow raised, “How about you get comfortable too instead of staring at me?”

 

Jongin shakes his head lightly but he obediently sheds off his jeans, leaves himself in only his plaid boxers, and he takes his top layers off. He pushes the sleeves of the cotton raglan shirt he is wearing upwards, three-quarters on the length of his arms. He fiddles with his wrist watch, unclasping the lock and placing the accessory on top of the bedside table. Kyungsoo takes both of their clothes, removing the phone inside one of Jongin’s pant pockets and handing it to him, before he disappears into the tiny laundry room near the door, beside the bathroom.

 

He makes himself homely on Kyungsoo’s bed, lying on his stomach as he rolls himself on top of the mattress. With his torso hanging off of the bed, he reaches his hands and runs his fingers on the spines of the books stacked close on the floor. He mumbles to himself the titles and the authors of the book and he traces the letters, either embossed or cleanly printed, on the spines.

 

Kyungsoo comes back after a moment, just as Jongin is lifting the books on top of what he is surprised to find as a collection of astutely witty historical accounts of the last Russian royal family. His eyebrows furrow in question but he lets the younger man grab the book. Jongin scoots farther back as Kyungsoo settles himself beside him. He pulls the comforter over the both of them and he steadies the top of his back on the pillows. Jongin opens his right arm and Kyungsoo snuggles close, head resting on his chest. He wraps his limb around the smaller man as they both wiggle and find a more satisfying position. Jongin rests the bottom of the book on his stomach as the other man grabs one end to balance the thick hardbound.

 

The hair on top of Kyungsoo’s head tickles Jongin’s jawline. Smiling he says, asks, as he uses his free hand to flip the pages, “Is this for leisure reading or.”

 

He feels Kyungsoo burrow himself deeper, one leg sliding in between his as their limbs tangle. Jongin continues perusing the table of contents, skimming through names and titles he’s more familiar with—Nicholas II, Anastasia, Rasputin. 

 

“Took some classes in grad school. I quickly got interested on the history though,” the older man answers. Mouth on his skin, hot breath against his quickly warming neck, Jongin senses the caress of Kyungsoo’s answer first before he hears and understands it properly.

 

He closes the book and he rolls to the side, careful not to put too much of his weight on Kyungsoo. Their legs rub against each other and goosebumps rise on Jongin’s thighs, and he thinks, maybe, on Kyungsoo’s too. He places the book on top of the stack where he has gotten it before rolling away from the older man. Kyungsoo grumbles and fixes their position again. This time, Jongin feels one small hand creep on his stomach, poking and drawing patterns on his abs over his clothes.

 

Jongin catches the wandering hand and he links their fingers, filling the in-betweens with each other. He says honestly, “Kyungsoo, you’re so smart.”

 

Kyungsoo laughs at that and retorts, “And you are too.”

 

“I know shit about the Russian royal line,” he answers. They play around with the way they hold each others hand, letting go and then chasing the other again. “And you speak, like, three languages fluently.”

 

“You’re fluent in French too,” Kyungsoo reminds him. The older man snuggles closer, pushing the comforter upwards, bunching the material under his chin.

 

“Your Russian is better than my French,” Jongin says. 

 

“I studied in Moscow,” the smaller man yawns against Jongin’s neck, muffling the sound on the skin. “Have you ever been to France?”

 

Jongin shakes his head, dipping his nose to smell Kyungsoo’s cool mint shampoo. He murmurs on the soft tendrils, “Many times. It gets boring at some point.”

 

Kyungsoo huffs a deep chuckle and his eyelashes tickle Jongin. He says, playfully accusing, “You’re the only tourist who has said that about France?”

 

“Have _you_ ever been,” he trails off. Kyungsoo hums and shakes his head. Jongin stays silent before he starts giggling.

 

Kyungsoo removes his head from where it is pillowed on top of Jongin’s sturdy chest, near his sternum. He puts his elbow on the bed and raises himself, cheek resting on one palm as he looks down at the younger man. Jongin’s heartbeat is a steady pitter-patter. With one eyebrow raised, Kyungsoo petulantly asks, “What’s funny?”

 

“Nothing. It’s just that—” He cuts himself off with a fresh round of silent giggles. His eyes in crescents and mouth gaping open, he tries to take deep breaths, gasping, “We were talking about the royal family and I just remembered something really—”

 

Jongin breaks off into laughter again and Kyungsoo aggressively glares at him, eager to be in on the secret. He tries to regain his composure back, manages to say, “You know the song? Ra-ra-raspu—”

 

“No!” Kyungsoo shoots up from the bed and Jongin splutters when he feels the other man’s palms slap his face, attempting to stuff his hands inside8 his mouth. He feels the air getting knocked out of his lungs when a weight suddenly drops on his stomach. Kyungsoo almost shrieks, “Don’t even continue!”

 

“Why,” Jongin teases, voice stifled but still understandable. “Do you hate the song? _Ra-ra-rasputin, lover of the Russ_ —”

 

Jongin’s eyes are blown wide when he feels Kyungsoo’s lips against his, stealing away the last notes of his off-key singing. Hands cradle his jaw as Kyungsoo’s thighs bracket his torso. The older man is hovering over him, chest almost flat against his as he straddles him. Jongin’s hands roam underneath Kyungsoo’s hoodie, nails scraping lightly on the soft skin of the smaller man’s back. Kyungsoo nibbles on his bottom lip and Jongin slips his tongue inside the warm mouth. He moves his lips and tilts his head, cups Kyungsoo’s ass with both of palms to squeeze. He feels like floating, doing everything at once, as he takes a taste of Kyungsoo—those thin breath mints in plastic cases with the chocolate they have eaten while walking back to the studio apartment.

 

He rubs hard on Kyungsoo’s tailbone and the moan the other man releases has him breaking their lip lock. Kyungsoo sits on Jongin’s pelvis and Jongin’s hands move from Kyungsoo’s back to the curve of the older man’s waist. His palms lie flat on the warm skin, playfully grabbing the slight rolls as Kyungsoo jokingly glares at him.

 

Jongin gets up, hands supporting Kyungsoo as the older man slides down a little bit. Their limbs are more than tangled but the soft smile slowly gracing the other’s features tells Jongin that he does not really mind the awkward position. He presses a chaste kiss on Kyungsoo’s lips, both their mouths are closed. He savors the feeling and he parts just a centimeter or less. He makes their noses kiss and their breaths mingle. Jongin opens his eyes to find Kyungsoo staring at him. The two of them bursts into giggles and he pulls the shorter man against his body in a tight embrace, squeezing the life out of the older man and swinging both their bodies side to side.

 

He places a hand on the man’s back and he holds the back of his head in one palm. Jongin flips the both of them so he’s hovering above the older man. Kyungsoo is sprawled on the mattress and his black hair is appropriately messy.Kyungsoo’s hoodie is slightly racked up and his boxer briefs have cuffed itself up the man’s plush thighs. There is pretty blush on his round cheeks and his lips are formed in a heart. The lights filtering through the window creates artwork on Kyungsoo’s pale skin, bright and neon painting the stretch of smooth canvas. 

 

Kyungsoo’s eyes are the color of light amber, glittering, and his large grin softens into a close mouthed smile. Jongin’s heart quickens. 

 

“Hi, Kyungsoo,” he blurts out. The thundering noises in his ears are rhythmic.

 

Kyungsoo’s laughter rings all over the tiny apartment. His eyes are in thin slits, curved in half circles, and his plump lips are shaped in a wide heart. He tilts his head to the side, reaching one hand upwards to hold Jongin’s jaw, and he says, “Hi, Jongin.”

 

Jongin’s heart stops.

 

He leans into the palm cradling the side of his face, nuzzling his face on the soft skin. Kyungsoo’s laughter is reduced into low chuckles and Jongin does not take his eyes off of the man underneath him. He pries away Kyungsoo’s fingers with his, digit by digit, and he intertwines them, spaces being filled and completed. He rests their linked hands beside Kyungsoo’s head and he bends down to give another kiss. His heart feels like it’s about to fail any moment now, like he’s about to die with the way his heart presses and expands inside his chest. Warmth spreads all over him. Familiarity and comfort leak through the spontaneity of their relationship—almost relationship,—with the lack of labels complicating and simplifying what is left in the air, what is left unsaid.

 

Jongin moves his lips southward, letting go of the older man’s mouth and dragging the bottom with his teeth. He pushes the gray hoodie up, exposing Kyungsoo’s stomach and he takes his hand away from where he has held onto Kyungsoo’s. He ghosts his fingers on the ribs protruding slightly on the other man’s torso, tracing the length of them delicately. The older man shivers underneath him from the featherlight touches alone and Jongin moves his mouth to give attention to Kyungsoo’s knife-sharp jawline. He bites it with his front teeth, nibbling, before he sucks and laps the skin with his tongue. His hands are spread on wide on the expanse of Kyungsoo’s front as he moves them upward. He leaves light impressions around the pink nub with the pads of his fingers and Kyungsoo breaks the kiss, arching his back, when Jongin tweaks the other nipple, pinching it in between his thumb and forefinger.

 

He takes the opportunity to take the gray hoodie off of Kyungsoo and the older man pulls on the hem of his raglan shirt. Jongin complies and takes it off, flinging both articles of clothing and letting it drop towards one of the book stacks near the bed. Kyungsoo licks his lips and his eyes are drooping low as Jongin dives back again—this time, his mouth is open and heated on the older man’s jugular. Jongin closes his eyes and he feels his focus tunneling towards Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo’s heartbeats, his hands slipping past Jongin’s boxers to knead his ass, his breathy sounds as Jongin colors his skin with pink and, hopefully later, purples fading into light yellow.

 

The taller man moves his lips a little more downwards and one of his hands reaches to palm Kyungsoo’s rapidly hardening member. He cups the other man’s length and he puts pressure before dragging his hand up and down. Kyungsoo’s back arches from the bed and the sounds he makes are loud. He places more kisses on all of the older man that he can reach, tasting and taking what he can, worshipping every inch. He thinks he’s about to lose himself, drown himself with the heady feeling of _Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo, Kyungsoo_. It is as if something has been knocked over, something minute at first before an entire upheaval. 

 

As he devours every patch of the man’s skin and desperately marks the other with the pieces of himself, Jongin cannot help but feel like he is the earth and Kyungsoo’s moans are the tremors that shift him out of orbit.

 

 

_{ you are the certainty, the i am._

_you are the time, the space, the infinity._

_you are the }_

 

 

Jongin expects something grandiose—explosions, maybe, or the glittering pink like rose bubbly, suddenly shrouding Kyungsoo’s existence. His pen shakes every time he tries to string together non-sensical singularities into a multitude. His head feels eerily quiet—no poetry on the tip of his tongue, no movements underneath his skin reminding him of what he has been once, what he has dreamed when he has been a young boy. Jongin has expected a lot—whirlwinds and loud noises and thunderstorms in dry desserts.

 

Instead, what he gets is this: Kyungsoo sitting on his couch and beer cans on the floor, the television humming low the sound of manufactured laughter and intentional idol embarrassment. The both of them cringe and Kyungsoo gives up on the show, chugging the last can of beer empty before he crushes them between his hands. It is all quiet, serene—a gently flowing brook in the middle of a living rainforest and spring day breeze and empty beaches punctuated by the regular pulse of crashing waves and tinkling wind chimes.

 

Kyungsoo is fiddling with his phone and Jongin tilts his head, making away with all the pretense of watching the train wreck on the screen in front of the two of them. The older man snickers to himself as he scrolls on his phone. Jongin raises his eyebrows but he lets the elder do his thing.

 

Suddenly, Kyungsoo turns to him with mischief on his eyes. His hand grips his large phone tight, as he breathes out, “You’re wearing a white shirt and a pair of jeans.”

 

Confused, Jongin asks, “So what?”

 

“We’re on the couch drinking beer and—” Kyungsoo moves closer. The clothes of their pants brush. “—our thighs are pressed together.” Jongin does not get what Kyungsoo is hinting at but the older man’s smirk does not falter. Kyungsoo looks beautiful acting like an imp, bright eyes twinkling with a hidden agenda and mouth curled. 

 

The elder moves his hand on the hem of Jongin’s shirt, and he brings his phone closer, reading, “ _I glanced as I advanced. The clean white T-shirt outlined / A forceful torso, the light-blue denims divulged—_ ” Kyungsoo turns his voice a notch lower, whispering in the dead of the apartment the words. “— _much. I observed the snug curves where they hug the behind. / I watched the crotch where the cloth intriguingly bulged._ ”

 

Jongin gulps at the realization of the poetry Kyungsoo is reciting and he wants to laugh, seriously, but his dick is severely interested, knowing where this is going. He shoots Kyungsoo an encouraging grin and that sinful mouth gives him a lopsided smile in return.

 

“ _I produced some beer and we talked. Like a little boy / He told me his story. Present address next door._ ” Kyungsoo pauses, runs his eyes on Jongin from top to bottom before continuing. “ _Born fully Korean. The youngest. From Seoul. / Profession professor. Name Jongin. Age twenty-nine._ ”

 

“Taking artistic liberties?” Jongin asks with a raised brow. The metric and word changes do nothing to the beat of Kyungsoo’s reading.

 

Kyungsoo’s smirk pulls higher on his face as he replies, “Of course. I can be a poet too.”

 

Jongin smiles back and he waves his hand as if asking the other man to continue. The elder does, voice raspy and smelling of imported alcohol. “ _He put down his glass and stretched his bare arms along / The back of the sofa_ —” The taller man obediently follows without any prompting and Jongin does not resist the urge to play on the short hairs on Kyungsoo’s head, pulling on them a little. The older man purrs, scrolls through his phone, and reads, “ _—the afternoon sunlight struck / The dark hairs on the wrist near my head. His chin was strong, / His mouth sucky. I could hardly believe my luck./ And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart. / I could bear it no longer._ ”

 

Jongin suppresses the snarl trying to escape as Kyungsoo slides off of the couch, kicking the crushed cans with his foot to free up the space. He pushes Jongin’s legs apart, one hand on each knee, as he kneels in front of the man. Cellphone in his one hand, he uses the other to drag the flat of his palm from the knee to the inside of Jongin’s thighs. 

 

Jongin feels. Warm. Hot. The hand is mere inches from his crotch.

 

He feels Kyungsoo lean forward and his heart almost collapses as all the blood rushes downwards to his dick. The older man pushes his white shirt slightly upwards and he kisses each ridge of his abs with an open mouth, damp, touching his tongue against the hard muscles before taking a sliver of skin in between his teeth. He does this eight times and, by the time he is done, Jongin’s dick is pressing painfully against his light washed jeans.

 

Kyungsoo lets his phone go, throwing it on top of the couch without even looking. His eyes still have the mischief on them but there is lust there, too—hunger. Jongin's right hand goes on Kyungsoo’s head and he runs his fingers through the short locks twice before gripping and pulling the hair taut. The older man moans delightedly, deeply, and the pale expanse of his throat is exposed. Jongin bends almost in half and he bites a little lower, knowing Kyungsoo has to hide the hickey that will undoubtedly bloom on the usually unblemished skin.

 

“F-fuck!” Kyungsoo curses, gasps. “This is not part of the poetry I’m reading.”

 

Jongin pulls away and his fingers loosen their hold on the short hair without letting go. In admittance, he says, “I’m really _really_ horny right now.”

 

Kyungsoo titters and the smile is back on his face. His hands play with the buttons of Jongin’s pants. He pulls it off of the hole before nimbly locking it back in place. He jokes, “I can’t believe Auden turns you on.”

 

Growling, Jongin retorts, not less than honest, “ _You_ turn me on.”

 

Kyungsoo drawls, “Good answer,” as he kisses the skin below Jongin’s navel and he blows hot air a little more lower. He pops the button open and his forefinger and thumb pinch the fly, dragging it barely an inch downwards.

 

His other hand is light on the toned V of Jongin’s hips, tracing the line but stopping where it has disappeared to underneath the younger’s clothes. Jongin bites his lips throughout, almost drawing blood, to curb the loud cussing of steady _fucks_ and _shits_ and _just suck me already_. He is letting Kyungsoo have fun.

 

The older male looks up at him from under the thick curtain of his dark lashes. Jongin is so impossibly hard when Kyungsoo has finally, _finally_ , pulled the zipper of his jeans completely. The finger previously teasing near his hip moves down, sketching the printed letters on the band of Jongin’s boxer briefs. Kyungsoo’s other hand hovers on top of his crotch and Jongin desperately stops himself from just bucking upward. The older man licks his bottom lip, closing his eyes, and pressing his mouth against Jongin’s clothed member. His dick twitches when Kyungsoo’s lips puckers on the wetness staining his underwear, mouthing around the bulge.

 

“Why are you teasing?” Jongin whines. His hand is still fisting Kyungsoo’s hair, the other curled tight from where it is resting on the back of the couch. He pushes the other male close to his erection, the pads of his fingers applying pressure on the man’s scalp. Soft skin chafes on his denim jeans and Jongin wonders how red it will be.

 

Kyungsoo orders, “Off,” and Jongin slackens his hold so Kyungsoo can pull away. Two small hands grip his pants and his boxers, shoving it down. The taller man raises himself a tad as he lets Kyungsoo pull his bottoms, pooling low on his ankles where Kyungsoo is kneeling. His erection springs free, hard as a rock and curved slightly.

 

The older man extends his hand, palming Jongin’s dick slowly, as his other free hand has the fingernails digging on the firm muscle on the outside of his thigh. He twirls the short hairs on Kyungsoo’s head, lax as he waits for movement. The shorter man licks his lips wet again before he kisses the crown of Jongin’s dick. Kyungsoo’s lips are soft and the slight chapped quality of them rubs on Jongin’s skin with the right amount of roughness. He places kisses around the head, ironic in their gentleness and chastity. Jongin does not take his eyes away and he groans when the hot cavern of Kyungsoo’s mouth envelops the tip.

 

“Soo, baby,” he whines, pulling at the other man’s hair. He sighs when Kyungsoo pulls his member from his mouth but he moans low when a hand goes to his balls, fondling them, as his index and middle finger barely touches his heated skin. The other man forms a circle with his hands and his thumb spreads the pre cum, ghosting on the slit with the barest of a caress. Jongin’s toes curl from where they are buried underneath the denim of his pants. Kyungsoo strokes him up and down, using the pre-cum as lube. The dryness makes it rough and Kyungsoo pulls his hand away. 

 

Jongin makes a frustrated noise, bucking his hip. Kyungsoo places one hand to stop him from moving and he says, “We’ll get you there.”

 

The younger puts his faith on Kyungsoo’s mouth—in more ways than one—and he tries to stop himself from squirming. Sweat already beads on his forehead and some have started trickling down to his jawline. Kyungsoo gives him an air kiss, pupils blown wide, as the older man spits on his own palm.

 

Jongin grins half way before his mouth forms an O in a silent groan. The slide is a little better this time. The slick of Kyungsoo’s saliva on his dick makes the movements more fluid, smoother, as the man moves his hand up and down.

 

“Faster, baby, please,” Jongin begs, stutters. He thrusts his hips up and Kyungsoo’s hand pushes harder on his hip, stopping him from moving.

 

“I’m going to make you come from my mouth,” the elder promises, withdrawing his hand from Jongin’s engorged member and then, adds, “and inside my mouth.”

 

Jongin’s mind whites out, blanks.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The fall semester disappears in a blink and with it, the season. Winter ushers in thick parkas and knit scarves, two woolen socks on one foot, undershirts for extra warmth. Smoke billows out of Jongin’s mouth every time he talks and Seoul, it seems, is colder this time of the year than the last. This time of the year last year, Jongin has no idea who Kyungsoo is. 

 

Now, the two of them are sitting on the floor of Kyungsoo’s studio, sharing a large mug of coffee. The older man is wrapped in a thick comforter, lying on the bed, as he traces Jongin’s tattoo on his bare chest with his finger. He is humming a soft tune while the taller man is reading a hardbound, perusing one of his potential sources for a research he has been doing.

 

He has finished two chapters when he feels Kyungsoo getting up, standing on the bed. The older man shucks his sweater off. 

 

“What are you doing?” Jongin asks dubiously, sitting up from where he is resting on top of the soft pillows. Kyungsoo shimmies out of his sweatpants, leaving him in a pair of black boxers. They are tight on the plush of his thighs and Jongin wonders if they are his.

 

“I’m going for a smoke.” Kyungsoo leaps out of the bed, walking to wear his bag is. Jongin eyes down the way the other man bends at the waist, the curve of his ass delightful. He rifles through the contents before he goes back to bed. He is clutching a silver lighter and a pack of cigarettes, the paper is crinkled and the box seems half full.

 

“It’s almost midnight and you’re naked,” Jongin deadpans. Kyungsoo shrugs and he opens the window, letting the daft air inside. The man shivers and he pulls the comforter around his body.

 

He taps the ripped part of the pack against his palm twice and a stick falls down. Kyungsoo holds it lazily in between his index finger and middle finger, the thumb supporting the butt. He puts it in his mouth before he flicks the lighter open. His thumb rolls the wheel once, twice, before a small fire comes out. He brings it to his lips and the cigarette burns where it should. Jongin sees the rise and fall of Kyungsoo’s back and then the smoke being blown to the open window.

 

“Ah,” he says flatly, “I got no ashtray.”

 

Kyungsoo is about to stand up but Jongin interrupts, “I have it.”

 

He pads to Kyungsoo’s kitchen, opens one of the drawers, before he pulls out a crystal ashtray. The insides are clean of any marks or cigarette remnants. There are four ridges to fit a single regular stick comfortably. Jongin makes his way back, stands in front of Kyungsoo, and he hands the tray without a word. Kyungsoo mouths his word of thanks as he rests the ashtray on the window sill. The cigarette bobs in his mouth languidly.

 

Jongin snatches the pack without permission and he pulls another one. He places it inside his mouth, biting it lightly in between his teeth. He grabs Kyungsoo’s face with both his hands and the man looks startled at the action. Jongin cannot speak so he waits and, after a beat, Kyungsoo closes his eyes. His eyelashes spread like wings on the thin skin underneath his eyes, marked with a light purple from sleepless nights.

 

He removes his palms on Kyungsoo’s cheeks and he puts two fingers to steady his cigarette stick. He uses the other so Kyungsoo’s will stop bobbing before he leans in close. The tips of the cigarette kiss as the embers travel from one to the other. The burn smells like menthol.

 

Jongin pulls away, standing up straight, before he takes a deep drag. The first exhale of the smoke is always the most satisfying. He places one knee in front of Kyungsoo and the man scoots back, leaving space for Jongin to sit so they are facing each other. The taller man manages to find a comfortable position for the two of them—Kyungsoo’s legs are sprawled and his are tucked underneath him in a lotus; their crotches are almost brushing against each other from the way they are pressed closer. The cigarettes dangle between their fingers as Jongin, with his free hand, grabs the back of Kyungsoo’s head. He pulls the man into a deep kiss, tongue flicking inside the other’s mouth. He tastes the telltale flavor of nicotine and smoke. There is a little menthol with ever tangle of their tongues.

 

Kyungsoo moans just as he pulls away but there isn’t any real distance between them. The older man takes a deep inhale, pink mouth curled around the stick, before he turns to the open window. His mouth is gaping like a half-gasp, as if the pleasure is incomplete, as smoke streams out his cock-sucking lips.

 

Jongin feels arousal pool low in his belly but it is not anything he has to take care of. The heat seems more of a blanket than a burning house he is stuck in the middle of. He takes another drag of his cig too, blowing before turning to Kyungsoo and asking, “Why do you smoke in your boxers?”

 

Kyungsoo shrugs, answers, “I don’t want my clothes to smell.”

 

The taller man eyes the comforter wrapped tightly around Kyungsoo, the only limb peeking out is the one holding the cigarette. Dryly, he retorts, “Your comforter smells like cigarette already.”

 

The elder tilts his head to the side, both eyebrows going up in a noncommittal gesture. He says, “Love is a funny thing.”

 

Jongin chuckles and he grips the edge of the comforter with his hand. Something moves underneath before he realizes it is Kyungsoo’s other hand. The man’s open palm cradles his closed fist. There is a thick blanket in between them.

 

“This is addiction.” Jongin takes another inhale before he drags the smoke in a long billow outside. Kyungsoo clicks his tongue thrice but he notices another fume dancing alongside his.

 

Kyungsoo tips the ashes on the tray before he turns to Jongin, saying, “Tell me a story.”

 

Jongin’s eyebrows go up and he takes a puff from the stick again. There are fingers trailing over his knuckles from under the comforter. 

 

“Why are you not dancing anymore?”

 

Jongin follows Kyungsoo’s eyes downwards, gaze ending on his clothed thighs. He knows, intimately, about the scars littering the skin there. He looks back at the older man, unsurprised that their eyes meet. 

 

He takes another inhale, blows. And then another, blows. He lifts his shoulders, replies, “Car accident when I was seventeen. I was stupid and reckless.”

 

Kyungsoo nods his head and Jongin continues, feeling the shadows of the past pull him closer. “An older friend let me drive his car and I neither had a driver’s license nor formal driving lessons. We ended up in a remote road somewhere in the countryside and I hurtled the car to a—lamp post?”

 

He tries to think of the events from a decade ago but Jongin cannot find it in himself to remember what exactly he has run over. He puts the cig between his lips—inhales, blows. “Concrete barrier? I don’t know. But, yeah, I got us in a major accident and I was almost dead afterwards.”

 

“Do you,” Kyungsoo pauses—inhales, blows. “wish you were?”

 

Jongin nods, chest tight. “For a time after, I did. My legs were never the same again and dancing had become so hard post-accident. It had always been my dream.”

 

Kyungsoo’s other hand sneaks past the comforter, up to where there is the small tattoo of the toe shoes on Jongin’s skin. He traces the outline with the pad of his finger, softly, delicately, reverently.

 

Jongin sighs, studding the cigarette on the tray. Kyungsoo does the same without looking. The younger man explains, “The next few years, I went on a bender. Got into the lit program here in Seoul. Got a bunch of tattoos. For a while, they made the pain bearable. No use thinking about the ache on your legs when you were getting needles pricked on your skin for hours almost every week. It took me a lot of therapy before I got to the point that I could say I was okay. I used to like making stories with the way I could make my body move but, eventually, I had to find that somewhere else. I became a lot more interested in writing and literature. And,” Jongin shrugs, “here I am.”

 

“Here you are,” Kyungsoo replies and his fingers do not cease their movements, redrawing the patterns already on Jongin—flowers, a lion, a quotation, numbers, the beginnings of a musical score, a date, a balance, a constellation. He says, “Your tattoos are beautiful.”

 

“Thank you,” Jongin replies cheekily, “they are very expensive.”

 

Kyungsoo throws his head back with his soft laugh and Jongin feels the present hook itself on to him with the shape of the older man’s smile and the sounds he is making. He settles for a, “What about you?”

 

“What about me?” Kyungsoo asks.

 

“Your—ah—origin story? Your angst?” Jongin teases. 

 

“I’m afraid I am not as _Catcher in the Rye_ as you are,” the older man smirks. 

 

Jongin shakes his head, replies, “There is nothing _Catcher in the Rye_ about my teenaged years.”

 

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember that book right now,” says Kyungsoo, chuckling. He adds, “I’m an only child. I had an older brother but he died of something before I was even born. My mother was a factory worker and my father was a mailman. We were not that rich.”

 

Jongin hums and he closes the window before pulling Kyungsoo in his embrace, cocooned in a blanket and all. The man’s head leans on his chest and warm breath, smelling of menthol and cancer, blows against his skin.

 

“They loved me so much,” he continues, “and supported what I wanted to do. They worked their asses off.”

 

“Where are they now?”

 

Jongin feels a grin on the side of his neck when Kyungsoo says, “In the province. They lived quietly tending their small vegetable patch. They own chickens and I name them after authors.”

 

The taller man huffs out a laughter, shaking the both of them, asking, “Like who?”

 

Kyungsoo answers, bright and sounding young, mischievous, the school boy troublemaker loved by everyone. “Lord Byron made good fried chicken.”

 

The younger chuckles, breathes out, “Of course, he does.”

 

Silence envelops the thickness of the air. The space heater sings a slow tune as Jongin holds Kyungsoo close. As Kyungsoo holds him close. He wonders if the older man can feel his heartbeat. He feels like a young boy again. His palms are clammy and he keeps on wiping them on the comforter. The rabbiting of his heart may be minute, no thunders, but Jongin feels unease coil at his stomach, ironically enough, because of how comfortable it is—they are.

 

“Tell me something more,” requests Kyungsoo, “about yourself.”

 

Kyungsoo’s voice is soft and the taller man lets it wash over him, warm him. Jongin loves Kyungsoo, is in love with Kyungsoo. He replies, “I love you. I am in love you.”

 

The older man stiffens in his arms and he acts like he is about to pull away. There is a sharp inhale stopped by the way Jongin is pressing the man on his chest. He hugs Kyungsoo close, steals and shares warmth between the two of them. It feels like summer when he holds Kyungsoo this close, like this.

 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he reminds. One of his hands goes on the back of Kyungsoo’s head. His fingers card through the dark locks. “I’m not asking anything from you, Kyungsoo.”

 

He feels something damp and a smile pulls on his lips, soft and slow. He asks, “Are you crying?”

 

There is a nod and Jongin coos, rubbing Kyungsoo’s scalp as his fingers comb through the short hair. “Please don’t. You are going to make me cry too, idiot.”

 

“Don’t call me an idiot,” Kyungsoo complains, watery. He sniffs and asks, “What if I never love you the way you love me? What if I don’t love you the way you deserved to be loved?”

 

Jongin inhales Kyungsoo’s scent, burying his face on the other man’s hair. This is not a heartbreak. He answers, truthfully, “Then that’s okay. You don’t measure love, Kyungsoo. It’s not something you quantify and compete against other people with. As long as you will have me.”

 

He pauses and he smiles, knows, repeats—this is not a heartbreak. Jongin continues, “As long as you will have me.”

 

“What are we going to do?” 

 

The air smells of cigarette sticks and, to Jongin’s nose, longing. It is a tragedy, he knows, to long for someone you are already holding. Kyungsoo burrows himself deeper in their embrace and— _Ah. There it is._

 

Jongin laughs, “You have a lot of questions,” as Kyungsoo’s fingers grasp the ends of his shirt in a tight twist. He answers, as best as he can, “Isn’t this enough? You on my bed and I, on yours. I don’t mind. I can love you enough for the both of us.”

 

He feels a laugh bubble from the older man—a dry little thing. Kyungsoo says, demands, “You don’t want to be loved?”

 

“I do. But I do not fall in love to be loved, you know? It is a little but like faith. You believe in something you don’t see, you don’t hear, you don’t touch. But it is there. Because you believe. And because of you. Unrequited love,” says Jongin, “is the greatest love a person can have.”

 

The other man makes a questioning noise and Jongin runs his hand up and down the man’s back. The dampness he is feeling has subsided. He wonders why Kyungsoo is the one crying, wonders why he is the one smiling. He whispers, “Kyungsoo, you love people a lot. You love people in many ways. And it is fine. You can love me any way you want.”

 

 

{ _This is not_

_A heartbreak_ }

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was uh. idk. thanks. bye. also dedicated to kiara, my angel. she gave me the push and the idea.
> 
>  
> 
> [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/official_KJD21).


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